James Barnes, Agent of SHIELD
by Kala Sathinee
Summary: Bucky never fell from the train. When they storm the final HYDRA base, he's there at Steve's side. But Steve still goes into the ice, and Bucky is left to deal with a world without him. A world in which he tries to find a purpose.
1. Aftermath

_Chapter One:_ Aftermath

* * *

"_There's not going to be a safe landing. But I can try to force it down_."

"I'll get Howard on the line. He'll know what to do," Peggy said, leaning over the radio, Bucky hovering beside her. He could feel his heart racing. His shoulder throbbed where a bullet had grazed it, but he ignored it.

"_There's not enough time_." Steve's voice was confident but even over the radio Bucky could detect the little shiver in his tone; the nerves he was trying so hard to hide. "_This thing's moving too fast and it's heading for New York. I got to put her in the water_."

"Steve, don't you dare!" Bucky snarled.

"We have time. We can work it out."

"_Right now I'm in the middle of nowhere. If I wait any longer, a lot of people are gonna die... Peggy, Buck... This is my choice_."

The silence in the room was the kind that caught in your throat and choked you. It didn't look like Peggy was breathing and Bucky couldn't stop himself shaking. It should have been him in that plane; not Steve. Never Steve. Steve was the one he was supposed to protect. This was not how it was supposed to end.

"Tell him," a soft voice urged and Bucky felt himself blanch as he met Morita's gaze.

"I can't," he mouthed back, a little jab of adrenaline making his skin crawl. Damn it, secrets were supposed to be secret and he cursed himself for not being more careful. He thought he'd been so good; thought he'd kept his feelings to himself. God, if Morita knew...

"Tell him or I will."

He looked to his other side. Peggy was giving him that look. The one that made whatever she said feel like an order. Between that and the feeling of Morita's eyes boring into the side of his skull he was certain he'd never been under more scrutiny. It terrified him, but then again, they didn't seem to be judging. He swallowed. Hard.

"_You guys still there_?"

"Steve, there's something I gotta say." Bucky clenched his jaw, gulping down the emotion that threatened to strangle him. "It's important."

"_Fire away, Buck_."

When had breathing become so difficult? "Steve, I..." Christ, it was an open channel. Colonel Phillips' superiors could be listening. The entire conversation was probably being recorded. "Steve. I love you." He was shaking like a leaf as he forced the words out.

"_I love you, too, Buck_."

"No, Steve. I didn't mean like... pals... I..." He wanted to laugh but he felt dangerously close to crying. "I mean... I _love_ you... the way Peggy loves you."

There was silence for a moment and Bucky barely breathed. His eyes were screwed shut; afraid to face the judgement on the others' faces and afraid to hear it in Steve's voice.

"_I know, Bucky. I know what you meant_." There was a soft chuckle at the other end of the line. "_Back at you_."

Bucky slumped in relief, his face half smile and half grimace. He managed a laugh, though it was closer to a sob. "Guess I should have said something sooner, huh?"

"_Yeah, me too_."

They lapsed into silence. Bucky could feel the hot sting of tears in his eyes. All he could think about was that scrawny little idiot back in Brooklyn that he'd fallen so hard for. The one who'd always had a heart too big for his chest. The one who could never back down from a fight. And even though he knew Steve wasn't that frail, asthmatic kid anymore, that was who he saw in his mind's eye as he listened to the sounds of the cockpit on the other end of the radio. He saw Steve as he'd been when they first met.

"_Peggy_?"

"I'm here."Peggy's voice shook and she grabbed Bucky's hand like it was a lifeline.

"_Take care of Bucky for me_."

"Hey, punk, I can take care of myself."

"I will, Steve. I promise."

"_And I'm gonna need a raincheck on that dance_."

Peggy crumbled in on herself and Bucky instinctively squeezed her hand. She was doing her level best to remain composed but there were tears on her cheeks.

"All right." She swallowed. "A week, next Saturday, at the Stork Club."

"_You got it_."

"Eight o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late. Understood?"

The sounds of the plane's engines were decidedly unhealthy. Even over the crackling radio there was a distinct quality to the scream that Bucky knew meant that the _Valkyrie_ was diving.

"_You know, I still don't know how to dance_."

"I'll show you how," Peggy's voice finally broke. "Just be there."

"_We'll have the band play something slow. I'd hate to step on your_—" The line burst into static and Bucky's heart stopped.

"Steve?" A tremble, barely detectable, went through Peggy as she fiddled with the controls. "Steve?"

Bucky couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. He swallowed, his jaw clenching until his teeth hurt. The burn in his eyes gave way to tears and all he could do was stare at the hissing radio.

"Steve?" Peggy's voice was a high, brittle whimper and her head dropped.

There was no sound in the room besides the radio. Peggy's sobs were silent. Part of Bucky wanted to shut the machine off, if only to silence the oppressive noise. Another part of him wanted to drown in the static forever.

He had no idea when exactly his knees gave out and he sank to the floor. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. He was half aware that he was crying; each sob choked and breathless. There was a weight like a tank on his chest; his breaths gasping and shallow and he wondered if this was what it had been like for Steve when he'd had one of his asthma attacks. He barely noticed Peggy's hand on his shoulder, but her voice came through the fog clear as day.

"Breathe, Barnes. It won't do either of us any good if you drop dead." The effect of her chiding tone was lost somewhat with her makeup running down her cheeks and her voice trembling. "Bucky?"

"I'm trying," he managed, his voice rough and low.

Peggy smoothed down his hair. "You look like a wreck."

"Yeah, 'cause you're the picture of composure." He was pretty sure that if he hadn't have been such a mess she might have smacked him. Instead she pulled him into a hug and buried her face in his shoulder. Not knowing what else to do, Bucky wrapped his arms around her.

He was dimly aware of Morita, silent and still by the door, but he couldn't look him in the eye. He was afraid of what he might see there. He knew what people did to men like him. He'd seen enough back alley beatings and heard enough horror stories from his one-night-stands to know that outing yourself in the wrong place was generally one of the last things you ever did. And sure, he trusted Morita, but there were a lot of men like him who'd thought they could trust other people and had ended up regretting it.

There were heavy footsteps in the doorway.

"I hate to break this up but we've still got mopping up to do." Phillips' voice had lost some of its usual waspishness. "Come on, Barnes. It'll get your mind off things."

Peggy released him, hastily wiping the tears from her cheeks before snatching her rifle from the control panel. Bucky ran shaking, calloused hands down his face, taking a deep breath which did nothing to steady him. But at least he could pretend.

"Yes, sir," he rasped, moving stiffly to his feet and slinging his own rifle over his shoulder. His eyes were bleary and stinging but he could see well enough to shoot. That was all that was really important.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

An hour later and Bucky had found a sort of cold composure. He knew it wouldn't last, especially now that he was out of Germans to shoot. He hadn't spoken a word since the communications room; not even to Morita, who'd been shadowing him the entire time. He recognized the concern on Jim's face for what it was, but he still couldn't bring himself to talk. What the hell was he going to say? It wasn't like there was anything Jim could say that'd bring Steve back. And the longer he could put off the inevitable conversation, the better.

And damn it, he was afraid. He was angry and he was afraid and he was aching with grief. He wanted to run away and hide; he wanted to punch someone in the face, and that fistfight with that German after they'd both run out of ammo hadn't been enough. He wanted to throw himself off the damn runway, but all he could think about was Steve's face when he'd almost fallen off Zola's train. The terror in his eyes when the brittle rail had given way under Bucky's weight and his hand had almost slipped through Steve's. It had been a close thing. One more second and he would have been a human splat at the bottom of a gorge. One more second and he wouldn't have had to listen to Steve die. And _god _wasn't that selfish. He hated the thought even as it passed through his mind but he couldn't stop it. It would have been easier for him, sure. Death was always easier than mourning, but it would have left Steve exactly where Bucky was now.

But damn it, Steve was never, _never_, supposed to die first. All of Bucky's worst nightmares had been of holding Steve during one of his asthma attacks and hearing that wheezing breath stop. He'd been so afraid that one day his help wouldn't be enough. That one day Steve'd catch something that'd kill him. That after some cold night in their apartment he just wouldn't wake up. The serum had chased those nightmares away and yet here he was nonetheless.

If Johann Schmidt hadn't already been dead, Bucky would have torn him limb from limb—slowly. Zola too, if he could get his hands on the snivelling little weasel.

His blood boiled as he followed the SSR men in front of him into the hangar. Peggy and Colonel Phillips were standing over a makeshift map table made of stacked crates, taking reports from Falsworth, Dugan, and a few other higher-ranking SSR men whose names Bucky didn't recall. Morita headed over to join them but Bucky paused. His eyes lingered on the few dozen HYDRA POWs who were lined up on the tarmac; kneeling, arms bound and armour removed. Some bowed their heads in shame, others jutted defiant chins forward. All he could think was that in no just universe did these men deserve to live when Steve Rogers was dead.

He'd crossed the hangar and drawn his sidearm before he even knew what he was doing. Seven shots rang out in quick succession, the roar rebounding off the walls as all seven bullets found their mark precisely between the eyes of seven HYDRA captives. Without breaking stride, without taking his eyes off his targets, without even blinking, he ejected the clip and slotted a fresh one into place. He cocked the weapon even as Phillips and Peggy shouted at him to stand down. He'd already put another seven bullets in another seven prisoners when Dugan and Gabe tackled him from behind, restraining him while Dernier pried his fingers from his gun. He was howling like an animal when they dragged him away; cursing and spitting and thrashing.

It took a long time for his teammates to calm him. He dimly remembered punching Dugan, though why and whether he did it knowingly were lost to the blur of rage and grief. Surprisingly, Dugan didn't hit him back. He just pinned his arms at his sides and held him there until shouts and snarls dissolved into a terrible, silent shuddering. The shakes might have been sobs if Bucky had had any tears left.

They didn't speak. Bucky slumped, defeated, against Dugan, Morita's hand squeezing his shoulder. Gabe and Dernier exchanged hollow glances; the sympathy in their eyes making Bucky's chest clench. Would they still look at him like that once they knew?

When Monty finally appeared the hallway was silent and cold as a tomb. Dugan was still holding Bucky, though it was less of a submission lock now and more simple comfort. The rest of them were clustered in a loose huddle, seemingly not keen to leave him alone. Monty said nothing; just joined them on the floor.

He wondered how long this would last; how long it would be before they'd learn his secret and turn away from him. How long would it be before he was on a troopship, heading home with a blue ticket to an empty apartment? And what would be the point? What in the hell was he supposed to do now?

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

For two days he didn't speak. He helped Peggy and Howard set up shop in the captured base. He helped the other enlisted men put up bunks. He helped move supplies and install defences. HYDRA may have been in tatters but they were still behind enemy lines. They were reminded of this when a Wehrmacht patrol passed nearby and a firefight broke out. Bucky had been watching from his blind and had taken out the drivers and gunners before they could fire a shot. When orders came he nodded, wordless, and Colonel Phillips didn't ask for anything more. And if he cried himself to sleep no one questioned.

He was reassembling his rifle in the courtyard, dawn light giving everything a sickly pallor, when Peggy joined him at the bench. Her grim expression didn't bode well for the day ahead and Bucky wondered if maybe there'd been some bad news from the front.

She sat in silence for a moment before wetting her lips. "James, they want to see you in the officer's lounge. They've set up a hearing room."

"Who's they?" Bucky almost didn't recognize his own voice, hoarse and gravelly as if was.

"The board of officers. If I recall, it was Major Kirby, Captain Brubaker, and Lieutenant Colonel Ross."

The bottom dropped out of Bucky's stomach. "So I guess Colonel Phillips heard." He didn't know what he had been expecting, but it was disappointing nevertheless.

"The Colonel didn't have much to do with it, I'm afraid." Peggy handed him the bolt carrier of his rifle and he took it, reattaching it by muscle memory alone. "It appears his superiors were listening to our radio traffic. They called up the board without consulting him." She was having difficulty concealing her disdain.

"Well ain't that swell," Bucky grumbled, heavy with sarcasm.

"I'm sorry, James."

Bucky set down his reassembled rifle with the same detached focus that he'd had during the fight for the base. He couldn't quite bring himself to remove his gaze from the woodgrain of the bench. The earnestness and sympathy in Peggy's eyes made it harder to keep himself in check. The thin veneer of control he'd cultivated was barely containing the maelstrom of emotion beneath the surface.

"You don't have to apologize, Peggy. This was inevitable from the moment I opened my mouth."

"That doesn't make it any less despicable."

"I know," Bucky turned a wry smile on her. "But I don't regret it."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

"Sit down, Sergeant Barnes."

The Lieutenant Colonel gestured vaguely toward the chair in the middle of the room without so much as a cursory glance up from his papers. The Major and the Captain sitting to either side of him were equally impassive. There was a great deal of shuffling files; the worst offender being the wiry, bespectacled man in the great coat who was sitting in the corner. Besides Bucky and the officers he was the only man in the room, and his whole demeanour screamed psychiatrist.

Bucky took his seat. He knew this routine.

"Sergeant, we've called you here to discuss the events of the morning of February twelfth. We have transcripts of your radio conversation with Captain Rogers. Do you have anything to say before we begin?" The Colonel looked up at him, though his eyes were narrowed as if he were examining some distasteful specimen.

"I think I said everything that needed to be said."

"Very well." There were more pages shuffled and Major Kirby leaned forward. "You and Rogers were living together before you enlisted, is that correct?"

"I didn't enlist. I was drafted," Bucky snapped, his jaw clenched. He'd heard rumours about witch-hunts like this. Word was the Navy was worse for them. _That's irony for you_. He never thought he'd actually face one. "And yes, we lived together."

"Did the two of you ever sleep together?"

Bucky shrugged. "Our apartment was cold in the winter. If we hadn't, he woulda died... He wasn't always a supersoldier."

"Did you engage in intercourse?"

"No!" Bucky looked between the officers. "I thought you said you had the transcripts. I'd never told him anything."

Kirby went on as if he hadn't heard. "Have you been sexually active in the service?"

"Yes."

"With fellow servicemen?"

"A few times."

Ross flicked the cap off his pen. "Names and ranks?"

Bucky sneered. "I don't remember."

The Colonel was glaring daggers now. "Look, Barnes. Cooperation is in your best interests. This tribunal has the power to grant you clemency."

"I'm sure it does."

Ross crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat. "You're a popular man in your unit. We all know that. You're also an American hero. It'd be a shame to tarnish that reputation." His narrow fingers twirled his pen with a deftness that was clearly meant to intimidate and Bucky might have been impressed if he couldn't have done the same with a nine inch knife. "I'd be willing to forget about this _unfortunate_ business provided you were to give me the names of the other men who were party to these activities."

Bucky felt his hackles rising. "You want me to rat out good men to save my own ass?" He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. If they hadn't been officers and if he hadn't already been in trouble he would have punched them all. What the hell kind of man did they think he was?

"I wouldn't have put it in such crude terms—"

"Well, good for you."

"Sergeant Barnes, this is a serious matter—"

Ross was cut off by Captain Brubaker clearing his throat. "With all due respect, sir, perhaps the Sergeant would prefer to talk about something else."

The Colonel gestured, accommodating. "By all means."

Brubaker smiled, leaning forward and meeting Bucky's eyes. For the briefest of seconds he actually looked sympathetic. "Why don't you help us understand your situation, Barnes. Let's talk about how you feel when you see a good-looking man."

Bucky felt his eyebrows climbing. Were they serious? "I imagine it's like when regular guys see a fine-looking dame."

"And is that how you felt when you saw Captain Rogers?"

"What I felt when I looked at Steve is none of your business," Bucky growled. The anger that had boiled over in the hangar and got fourteen German POWs killed was simmering just beneath his skin.

Brubaker was unfazed. "Did you prefer an active or a passive role in copulation?"

"What?" Bucky spluttered. The officers just waited, tapping pens on paper. "Why the hell do you need to know that?"

"Like I said, I'm trying to understand your situation," Brubaker said. "Help me help you."

Bucky wanted to spit in his face. "It depended on who I was with."

"In general."

"Passive," he hissed through gritted teeth.

"Was it pleasurable for you?"

"Yes."

"And did you reach orgasm?"

That was enough. Bucky sat back in the chair, scowling. "You know what, I'm not answering that. This is absurd."

Ross perked up at his defiance and cast an angry glare across the room. "Is your family aware of your condition?"

Bucky's jaw clenched. "No."

"What about your minister?" Major Kirby asked.

"Of course not."

The pen was twirling again and Bucky was beginning to think that there was a direct correlation between Ross' confidence and how much that pen moved. "It would be unfortunate if we were to be forced to inform them."

_Goddamn slimy prick_... Bucky clenched his fists, acutely aware of the knife in his boot and wishing the officers were Wehrmacht so he could have killed them. When he remained silent, Ross continued.

"Our purpose is to remove from the Army people who are afflicted with this condition. If you can provide names to further that purpose—"

"No."

"Need I remind you, Sergeant, that you are under oath?"

Bucky hated the patronizing tone. He'd heard it from officers before, but it never failed to grate on his nerves. He thought back to all his flings and one-night-stands; all the men Ross, Kirby, and Brubaker would have him betray. He thought about the young corporal he'd met during basic training—blond, born in Indiana. An innocent farm kid who'd been over the moon to find others like him. He thought about the sailors he'd met up with during the crossing. He thought about Harry, with whom he'd shared both foxhole and bed for three months; about Tom, a fellow Brooklynite and the best sex Bucky had ever had. And he thought about the young Italian men who'd leaned out their windows with offerings when he'd first landed. Solicitations which he'd declined to translate for Dugan and Gabe so that there would be no suspicions when he disappeared with one of them later. He remembered all their names, their faces. He remembered everything. But it would have taken a special kind of coward to turn them all over to this goddamn kangaroo court.

"I'm not giving you any names." Bucky raised a defiant eyebrow. "So if that's all..."

Ross dropped the pen and sighed. "All right. If that's how you want to play it."

"What? Are you gonna torture me?"

"No, Sergeant. I'm going to call a recess," Ross replied, bland and clinical, almost bored. "We're going to decide your fate and you are going to talk to Dr. Kurtzman."

Bucky glanced over at the bespectacled mute. "Oh joy."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

In the end, Bucky was fairly certain he preferred Ross' style to Kurtzman's. It didn't help that his talk with the excitable psychiatrist took place in what looked like Arnim Zola's private office. Sure, it looked like someone had hucked a grenade in there during the battle, but still. The equipment looked eerily familiar, even in pieces on the floor.

Kurtzman himself seemed friendly—sympathetic, almost. But Bucky wasn't about to be suckered into that ploy. He knew that everything he said would go straight to Ross. There was no doctor-patient confidentiality here. So Bucky was curt and cautious. He gave away nothing and refused to talk about anyone besides himself. Kurtzman was clever though, and a few of his questions nearly caught Bucky off guard. He wondered how many people had been on the receiving end of his invasive questions.

For an hour and a half he was quizzed on his sex life in between offers of assistance in return for cooperation. Bucky wouldn't have considered himself easily embarrassed but as the interrogation went on he grew increasingly uncomfortable. It was disconcerting to have Kurtzman taking notes as he answered questions about pointless, highly personal details of his sex life. Kurtzman was being very clinical and detached about it all but it still made Bucky's skin crawl. When they were called back to the hearing room, Bucky was more than happy to get out of Zola's office.

Ross, Kirby, and Brubaker were waiting for him when he returned, retaking his seat. Kurtzman had got there first and the new stack of papers in front of Ross looked suspiciously like those that the doctor had been writing on. How predictable.

"I must say, Sergeant, you have been supremely uncooperative." Ross' voice had an edge of frustration to it and Bucky counted that as a win. "I hope you enjoyed this show of defiance."

Bucky smirked, even as nervous knots settled into his stomach. "Yes, sir. I did." There was a weary sigh from Kirby; Brubaker shook his head. Ross just glowered.

"You've been discharged, Mr. Barnes. Papers will be delivered to you later today. You will be stripped of any service awards and medals, and you will be expected to remain in isolation barracks until such time as you can be shipped home. Do you understand?"

Bucky gulped. The numbness of the past few days was the only thing saving him from breaking down. He'd known this was coming but the reality of it still hit him like a speeding train. A blue discharge... A goddamn blue discharge. No GI benefits, no re-enlisting, and good luck getting a job. God damn, this was not happening...

"Barnes?"

He twitched. "Yes. Yes, I understand."

"Good." Ross shut the manila folder in front of him. "You're dismissed."

Bucky stood, stiff and silent, his legs like rubber. He snapped a robotic salute and turned heel, feeling like he was going to be sick. He refused to let them see him break and he made it down the hall and out to the hangar before his knees started to give underneath him. The main doors were open just enough to slip through and he stumbled out into the frigid mountain air, collapsing in the corner where wall met stone.

He didn't cry. There were no tears; just a silence broken only by the sound of his breathing. He didn't actually have a word for the emotion tearing at his insides. It felt like rage and grief and shame all rolled into something infinitely worse than the sum of its parts. He was shaking and hyperventilating and he hadn't felt like this since the last time he'd woken up in Zola's lab. And for the first time he actually hoped that he would wake up and still be strapped down to that examination table. He hoped that the last year and a half would turn out to be some fever dream. That Steve would be safe back home in their dingy tenement in Brooklyn, gathering scrap metal all day and sketching in the evenings. That Clara would be watching out for him like he'd asked her to before he'd shipped out. That none of this would have happened. That Steve would be alive and well and not smeared across the arctic ice.

Returning to that lab—to Zola's experiments—would have been a small price to pay to breathe life back into Steve. It would have meant dying under Zola's knife, sure, but if it gave Steve a normal life... Surely that was better than this. Steve dead; Bucky riding home with a blue ticket that would forever mark him as a pariah. His only consolation was that Steve had loved him back.

No amount of blue paper would take that away.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

An hour later and Bucky was halfway to the bottom of a bottle of White Horse Scotch Whiskey he'd been saving since they raided that third HYDRA base back in '43. As usual, he didn't seem to be getting as buzzed as he'd hoped. He couldn't get drunk anymore. He'd figured that out about a week after being rescued. It had sucked then and it sucked now.

"Knocking back the hard stuff, huh?"

Dugan took a seat on the crate next to him, a not-quite-black eye blossoming on his face. He looked tired and glum and worried.

Bucky shrugged. "Not like I'm on duty anymore."

The crunch of footsteps in the snow behind them signalled the approach of the other Commandos. He could recognize each of them by their gait. Morita's clipped steps; the smooth, near-silent padding of Jones; the equally silent, yet stiff steps of Falsworth; the confident swagger of Dernier, though it was less than confident at the moment.

"Yeah, we heard about that." Dugan looked back and motioned their teammates forward. Jim, Monty, Gabe, and Dernier pulled a few crates out from the wall and into a rough circle. Bucky gulped down another mouthful of whiskey and kept his eyes on the snow at his feet. "You okay, kid?"

"Don't worry, I'll have my gear into the isolation barracks as soon as they're up.

Morita and Falsworth shared a glance.

"Why the devil would you do that?" the Lieutenant asked.

Bucky raised his eyes and looked from face to face. He swallowed and lowered the bottle. "You do know why I was discharged, don't you?"

Dugan laughed—a curt, bitter ghost of his usual laugh. "We didn't need some stick-up-their-asses board of officers to tell us you were queer, Barnes. We've known since Austria."

Bucky almost dropped the bottle, staring, muted, at Dugan.

"You remember that day Lohmer beat the hell outta you and you didn't wake up 'til the next morning?"

Bucky nodded, meeting Dugan's eyes. "I remember."

"When his guards threw you back in with us there were pink triangles sewn to your shirt and trousers," Monty took over. "We all knew what that meant."

"And we knew that with those on you wouldn't last a week in that camp. Marked men never do." Dugan shrugged. "So Dernier picked the stitches and Gabe and I made the patches disappear into the blast furnaces the next day."

"You never said anything..."

"Wasn't my business."

The Commandos fell quiet. To be totally honest, Bucky had no idea what to say. To know that they'd covered for him—saved his damn life... What was he supposed to say? What words could possibly convey how he felt? He took another swig of his scotch. There was a commotion by the open hangar door and he could just make out Colonel Phillips' voice snarling at what sounded like Lieutenant Colonel Ross.

"Need I remind you, Ross, that I am the commanding officer here?"

"No, sir."

"Good. Now if you want my signature on those papers you'll do as you're told."

Bucky heard Ross' heels click as he snapped a salute; didn't even need to be looking to know that's what it had been. Beside him, Morita, Dugan, and Jones turned to watch as Phillips approached. There was a second set of footsteps, but Bucky hadn't even tried unravelling who it could be when Dugan gave a curt nod.

"Sir. Ma'am."

"Mr. Barnes," Phillips began, his tone impossible to read. "I heard about your discharge."

Bucky chewed the side of his mouth. "I'm assuming you heard the reasons."

"Only one reason a man gets a blue discharge."

Peggy stepped into view and Dugan shifted over, making room for her next to Bucky. Her hand on his forearm was strangely comforting, even though a stab of guilt slid between his ribs. He should have been the one looking after her, not the other way around. He glanced up at Colonel Phillips.

I'm sorry, sir."

The Colonel gave him a _look_. "The hell you got to be sorry about, son? Being a damn good shot? Saving lives? Being one of my best men? So you have a little more than the usual amount of love for your fellow man. I don't give a damn." He cast a glance around the miserable circle, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. "What about you, Morita? You give a damn?"

Jim shook his head. "No, sir."

"Dugan? Jones? Anybody?"

The Commandos all shook their heads. Gabe's hand came to rest on Bucky's shoulder and squeezed, but Bucky kept his eyes down. He could feel the sting of tears and he desperately tried to will them away.

"You know, my best team was a Limey, a Jap, a Negro, a Frenchman, a Girl Scout, a dunce in a bowler hat, and a supersoldier in tights," Phillips grumbled. "Adding a queer to that illustrious list is not the end of my damn world."

Monty rolled his eyes at 'limey' but the rest of them snorted; though Dugan did glance up at his hat and frown. None of them seemed to know whether they should have been trying to make Bucky laugh or joining in his solemn mood.

"Look, I told Ross that I won't allow any isolation barracks on my base. He doesn't like it but he knows where he can shove it. I figure you've been through enough in the last seventy-two hours." Phillips paused. "Unless any of you have any objections."

"He's slept in the same barracks as us for two years now. Nothing's changed," Dugan replied.

"The Sarge is still the Sarge," Jim agreed.

Monty nodded and Dernier replied with a simple "Oui."

Gabe smiled. "Once a Commando, always a Commando."

Relief swelled in his chest and Bucky hung his head, wiping his cheeks. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but this wasn't it. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought that they would stand by him if they knew. He'd been so careful about concealing that part of himself; from basic training to the trenches, from the HYDRA camp to now. He hadn't wanted to go to war, but once he'd been drafted he hadn't wanted to end up assigned to clerical work just because he was a queer. And he certainly hadn't wanted to be sent home with a Section Eight. He hadn't wanted to be treated any different than the other men, and here they were, not treating him any different. Bucky was so relieved and so grateful and so damn happy; so why were there tears on his face?

Phillips sighed, ruffling Bucky's hair. "Come on, kid. You're makin' me cry."

"Sorry, sir."

"You don't have to call me that anymore, Barnes."

He took a deep breath and screwed the cap back on his bottle. "I know. I know that... Force of habit."

Phillips nodded and there was a moment of comfortable silence. It felt like old times; like one of those evenings in Italy after raiding a base. Sitting around the fire, drinking stolen German liquor and telling embellished stories. But there was an aching hole in Bucky's chest that had nothing to do with his discharge.

"You know what, to hell with it," Phillips said. "As of now you're all off duty for twenty-four hours. How about we all go down to the mess and see what old Johann had in his wine cellar."

"Wine cellar, sir?" Morita asked, a touch hopeful.

"Apparently they found a huge stash underneath Schmidt's office. I figure he owes us one, so I asked around and it turns out Kingsman and Isaacs know how to tend bar." Phillips shrugged. "Told 'em to set up in the officer's mess."

Dugan smiled. "What are we waiting for?"

It was Gabe that hauled Bucky to his feet as they all moved to follow Phillips inside; ignoring his grumbled protests. Despite having almost finished a bottle of whiskey, he didn't feel even close to intoxicated. And he hadn't realized how cold he'd been until they passed back into the hangar and the usually chilled space felt warm.

Peggy squeezed Bucky's hand, kissing his cheeks before slipping off in the direction of the briefing room. She hadn't got two steps before Phillips grumbled.

"You too, Carter."

Peggy stopped. "Sir, I have things I—"

"All you're gonna do is sit in your office and cry," Phillips interrupted. "You might as well come down to the mess and cry. You won't be alone."

She sighed, straightening her uniform. When she turned she was standing a touch straighter, too. "Yes, sir." There was a certain resignation to her voice but Bucky said nothing. He knew how she felt.

"You and Barnes can commiserate," Phillips added as they all made their way to the makeshift pub.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

It really did look like a pub. Bucky had to give the boys credit. They'd set up a bar behind some piled-up transport crates; a sampling of bottles were on display behind them. Soviet vodka, French wine, Scotch whiskey, American bourbon, German, Irish, and English beer. There was even a bottle of sake and a few different brands of absinthe. Schmidt had had quite the collection. He wondered what awaited them in the as-yet unopened crates stashed in the corner.

On the opposite side of the mess from the bar was an attempt at a stage. A few of the boys were putting on a show; Milford in his usual Carmen Miranda getup backed by the hairiest, most ridiculous chorus line Bucky had ever seen. The laughter died down somewhat when Phillips entered the room, but all it took was a "Carry on," and Milford was back in some Sergeant's lap.

Bucky was surprised they were getting away with it, considering how big of a stick Ross had up his ass. But he supposed that Milford's girlfriend protected him from suspicion. And Bucky was the only one so far to confess love to another man.

The Commandos took up residence at one of the mess tables, sending Dugan up for drinks, but Bucky slipped into place at the bar. Peggy followed, taking the stool next to him in silence.

"You don't have to look after me, Peggy," he said, quiet and subdued.

Peggy studied him, dark eyes staring into his like she was looking for his soul. Or checking to see if he still had one, he supposed.

"I made a promise, Barnes. I intend to keep it."

Bucky emptied his bottle into a tall glass that Isaacs passed to him with a certain hesitancy. He knew he should have found it disconcerting that he could get through an entire bottle of scotch in less than four hours. But he wasn't even buzzed, so he ignored the fact that that amount of alcohol should have killed him.

"S'not like he's gonna be checking in on you."

"Exactly my point." Peggy's stoic facade cracked and some of the pain underneath shone through. "If he had made you promise to look after me, would you flag in that duty?"

Bucky sighed. "No. I just don't think a lady as nice as you needs to be saddled with looking after a dumbass old queer."

Peggy reached over to squeeze his shoulder. "How about a dumbass old friend?"

He met her gaze for a moment, smiling bitterly, before dropping his eyes once more to the woodgrain of the bar. "You would have been good for him."

"Yes, but I think he was already spoken for."

Bucky swallowed down a mouthful of his drink. "No. No, if he'd lived I'd have backed off."

"Why? Because you think he loved me more?"

"Because a good, respectable family life is what he deserved."

Peggy looked at him like he was the biggest idiot in the world. "And life with you wouldn't have been respectable at all." Her voice managed to carry more sarcasm than two whole years worth of James Montgomery Falsworth.

"That's what they'd say." Bucky swirled the liquid in his glass. "Can't go tarnishing the reputation of America's golden boy, now can I?"

"I think America's golden boy would have had something else to say about that."

His chest constricted and he told himself that it was just the smoke in the air. "We'll never know now, will we?" In one smooth gulp, he downed the rest of his drink.

Peggy leaned onto the bar, running weary fingers through her hair. "I think Steve said everything he needed to, James." Her tone was level but her expression was wavering closer to grief. "He loved you."

He watched the tremble in her hands and her jaw; watched the purse of her lips and the sparkle of unshed tears. He knew she probably would've preferred that he pretend not to notice but he was damned if he was going to sit there and watch her fall apart. "I guess we've got that in common, then," he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders. A soft, broken sob escaped her and she sank against the bar. Bucky pulled her close, leaning his face into her hair. "And if you're gonna insist on lookin' out for me, at least let this dumbass old queer return the favour."

Peggy did laugh at that, so Bucky called it a win.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

The next three months passed slower than the previous two years. Bucky got his blue discharge papers, but Phillips told him point blank that he'd only be sent home if that was what he wanted. There would have been a time when he would have jumped at the chance, but he didn't have anything left to go home to except an empty apartment that would never again echo with the sound of Steve's footsteps and would never again smell of charcoal and fresh paper. So he stayed on. He was no longer Sergeant Barnes; he was just Bucky. But the Commandos still deferred to his orders. He was still their leader in Steve's absence, though by all rights the command should have been Monty's.

They linked up with the Ninth Army at the Rhine not long after leaving the base to a fresh batch of SSR commanders. They fought their way into Germany inch by bloody inch and Bucky became convinced over those months that the only reason they'd got as far as they had was because the Germans were throwing most of their firepower to the eastern front in a desperate attempt to hold back the Soviets.

Berlin was a bloodbath. Bucky had to drag Gabe to cover and tend bullet wounds, all the while listening to the whistle and clang of machine gun rounds raining around them. They spent half an hour pinned down behind a shallow cinderblock wall before one of their stolen HYDRA tanks could get to them.

The worst part of it was that most of the Germans they were shooting were kids who'd had rifles shoved in their hands and been told to defend the Reich till their dying breath. Bucky's nightmares were filled with the lifeless eyes of the boys he'd shot and the droning static of a dead radio line. He didn't sleep well anymore.

It came as a relief when the Germans surrendered. He could breathe easier knowing that he wouldn't have to kill any more of those boys. The Commandos shipped back to London that afternoon and by the times the news hit they'd settled in at a pub close to HQ.

Compared to the other patrons they looked like a dour bunch, but none of them could bring themselves to celebrate. Not when there was an empty chair. When their first round of drinks came, Monty raised his.

"To the Captain."

They all followed his lead, raising their glasses, and Bucky added a soft "To Steve."

Bucky spent most of the night sitting in one dark, smoky corner thumbing over the folded blue papers that he kept in his pocket, wondering what in the hell there was to go home for. He didn't know if he knew how to be anything other than a soldier. Without the war and without Steve he didn't know if he even had a purpose anymore. The army didn't want him; they'd made that abundantly clear when they'd refused him lodgings at the local barracks. If it hadn't have been for Monty offering to let him stay with his cousin in Surrey he'd have been sleeping on the street.

He knew that come morning they'd be packing up SSR headquarters. The war in Europe was over and life as he had known it for three years was coming to an end. He had no idea if he would ever see any of these people ever again.

He'd never known victory to feel so bittersweet.


	2. A Sort of Homecoming

_Chapter Two: _A Sort of Homecoming

* * *

Bucky was fairly certain that he was never going to feel warm ever again. He had two layers of gear on; thick, army-issue down coats that were meant for Arctic weather. But he still felt like his blood was freezing his veins. Every gust of wind bit through fabric, through flesh, and down into his bones until it felt like part of him. Every now and then one of the crewmen would come out on deck and ask him if he wanted to come in. His answer didn't change. He was starting to think that they were only coming to check that he hadn't frozen to death on his feet.

He stood at the bow of the icebreaker, gloved hands shoved in his pockets, face buried behind a heavy scarf, and stared out over the ice. He should probably have been frostbitten by now but his skin was apparently as impervious to cold as the rest of him was to alcohol.

"Feet frozen to the deck yet?"

Bucky managed a soft chuckle and reached up to pull his scarf down.

"No such luck."

Peggy stepped across the deck, wrapped up in a comical amount of woollen fabric, her face barely visible between collar and hat. Her hands were deep in her pockets, which lent her gait a rather awkward shuffle. "I thought you should know that Howard found the Tesseract."

Hope, such as it was, thrummed through him. "Any sign of wreckage?" He returned his eyes to the horizon, searching the never-ending whiteness for any sign, any scrap that could be remnants of the _Valkyrie_.

"Nothing yet. He thinks it might have been dropped before the plane went down." She glanced around. "You can come inside, you know. We have instruments looking for wreckage and a constant watch from the bridge."

"Never hurts to have an extra set of eyes."

There was a long, uncomfortable moment of silence, broken only by the thumps and cracks of the ice giving way to the prow of the ship. Bucky's ears had long since tuned out the hum of the engines and the harsh crashing of the cold water.

"Those eyes won't do you much good if you freeze to death. Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

Bucky's heart leapt into his throat at the sight of a dark patch on the flat white only to have it plummet again when he realized it was just a patch of old seal blood and a picked-over carcass. "What is it that you think I'm doing?"

"Showing a reckless disregard for your own well-being that Steve wouldn't approve of. If I didn't know you better I would suspect you were hoping the exposure will kill you." Her tone was sharp and it was obvious that _she _was the one who didn't approve.

He shrugged. "Maybe I am."

"James." Something in her tone made him turn. She wasn't scowling like he'd expected. Instead she looked concerned. "Standing out here in the cold will not bring him back."

She may as well have hit him. "I know. I know that."

"Then why are you out here? You've been standing in the cold for six hours."

Had it really been that long? He gulped. "I need to be here when—" He stopped, trying to convince himself that it was simply the cold that made his voice crack. "I want to be down here when they pull him out, okay? I... I made him a promise once; told him I was with him to the end of the line. The line don't end 'til one of us is in the ground and this..." he gestured around at the expanse of frozen nothing. "This does not count."

The edge left Peggy's expression; disapproval transmuting into empathy. "Surely you can spend the intervening hours on the bridge rather than out here catching your death."

Bucky looked out again at the horizon. Somewhere out there was the mangled wreck of Schmidt's plane. And somewhere inside that was Steve's body, freezing and abandoned. He didn't deserve that. But Peggy was right. Standing out here in the cold wasn't going to change that.

He sighed. "Okay. You're right." He brushed the frost out of his hair and turned, reluctant but resigned. "You guys got hot chocolate in there?"

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

He wasn't frostbitten—which furthered his belief that whatever Zola had done to him in that lab had involved the same serum Steve'd got—but his fingers, toes, ears, and nose burned when he joined Peggy inside the warm confines of the bridge. They did in fact have hot chocolate, which was ten times better than the swill that they called coffee. Howard warned him against it before he could even consider having a cup. According to Peggy the tea was equally dreadful.

He felt useless as the hours passed; combing each grid point and crossing it off. Temporary excitement came in the form of a clear sonar contact that had them scrambling the recovery craft only to find the wreckage of an abandoned U-Boat that had drifted north. Disappointed, they flagged it and moved on.

Evening came—though it had been dark for several hours already—and the crew changed shifts. Most of the men retired to their bunks and were replaced by a skeleton crew of quiet, seasoned old soldiers. None of them were much good for conversation. Peggy remained for a few hours but called it a night when she started nodding off on her feet.

Bucky knew he could go without the sleep and he knew he wouldn't be able to shut his eyes even if he tried. So he took up residence at the bridge window and watched the frozen arctic pass them by. Howard too, remained; the bags under his eyes growing darker and more pronounced, though none of his exhaustion bled into his voice on the rare occasion that he gave orders.

The map was covered in red Xs, spanning grid points from Scotland to Greenland and onwards to the north. The Xs now outnumbered the grid points they had left to search, which meant they were closer to finding him and it made Bucky even more vigilant.

"Not much to look at at night, is it?"

Bucky glanced sideways at Howard as he joined him by the window. "Not much to look at during the day either."

"Easy enough to search though. You can see for miles."

He shrugged. It hadn't been much help so far. "I thought that's what radar was for?"

Howard considered him, undeterred when Bucky returned his eyes to the sea. He gestured toward the map. "We'll find him soon enough, Barnes."

"Is that a promise, Stark?"

Howard clapped him on the shoulder. "How hard can it be to find a giant Nazi plane?" The jovial tone sounded forced and when Bucky didn't laugh he dropped the smile. "Yes, Barnes. It's a promise."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

There was no morning light, just the sound of the clock ticking over to six AM and the changing of the guard. Peggy returned just after the captain, looking like she hadn't slept a wink. Coffees were passed around in the dark and another grid point was crossed out. There was a subtle lightening of the sky in front of them, but sunrise itself was a long way off.

Howard was on the phone with Phillips, demanding surveillance flights over the arctic but from what Bucky could hear the Canadians were refusing to allow their territory to be photographed by military aircraft. Which would mean that they wouldn't have up-to-date information on the movement of the ice, nor would they have the chance to pinpoint the crash site by air.

Peggy was almost positive that Canadian waters were where they would find the _Valkyrie_, so the obstinacy of the politicians and Coast Guard was infuriating. Damn fine time to get picky about borders.

Howard put down the phone with more force than was strictly necessary and stalked over to the bank of screens that displayed the radar and sonar readouts.

"Take us to the next grid point."

Bucky hadn't moved from his vigil at the bridge window for some time and he'd fallen into something of a trance. Peggy joined him but for a long moment she didn't actually say anything. When she did there was an anxious note to her voice that she was evidently trying to hide.

"We're close. There's only a few more grid points to check; all of them in the right area... We should be coming across wreckage any time now."

Bucky nodded and buttoned his parka. "I'll be on deck."

"No you won't." Peggy fixed him with an imperious glare. "You've got a better view up here anyway. I want your eyes on this bridge."

_Well, when you put it like that..._

He pulled a face. "All right. Whatever you say, ma'am."

And so, like a good little soldier, he stayed put. Hour after hour slipped by. One by one the grid points were cleared. The anxiety on the bridge was palpable in the air by the time they were combing the last few square miles.

Fear had taken root in Bucky's chest. There was nothing on the horizon but ice. There hadn't been a peep on the sonar besides the ghostly calls of whales and deep, groaning rumble that Howard had said was a calving iceberg. The Coast Guard planes reported no sign of a crash during their flyovers. He kept wondering how on earth someone could possibly miss something as big as the _Valkyrie_. His fingers drummed, restless, on the windowsill. He bit his lip near bloody.

_Come on, Steve. Where are you?_

"I'm not getting anything, sir."

"Nothing on sonar?" Howard sounded exhausted and angry.

"Not a blip."

The tiny, muttered "Shit," had the bottom dropping out of Bucky's stomach. He turned away from the depressing view and faced Howard and his engineer. Both of them were looking back at him as if he were a time bomb.

"What? So we missed it. We just go back." He looked from Howard to Millington. Stark ran a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache.

"Barnes, we've looked everywhere. We've combed these waters—"

"And we missed him. So we look again."

There was a long moment of awkward silence. Millington busied himself with the controls of the sensors and cameras and moved off. Howard let out a breath and broke eye contact.

"Turn us around. We're going home."

Bucky darted toward the helm, pointing a commanding finger at the crewman manning it. "Don't you dare!" He rounded on Stark. "Howard...!"

"I'm sorry, Barnes."

"Then look again! We must have missed something!" He waved his arm at the dark expanse of arctic ice beyond the window. His voice took on a note of desperation. "We go back in daylight, check the grid points we searched in the dark. How hard can it be to find a fucking plane?"

"Barnes..."

"He was your friend!"

"Bucky..."

He slammed his fist on the control panel. "Dammit, I'm not leaving him here!"

A hush fell over the bridge in the wake of the outburst. The crew wouldn't look at him; Peggy was silent by the window. Howard looked as if Bucky had slapped him in the face. In the heavy stillness it was possible to hear the pitch of the engine change as the vessel turned.

"He's probably at the bottom of the ocean, James." Howard's voice was gravelly. "Our odds of finding him are slim to none. I'm sorry."

Bucky wanted to be angry. He wanted to keep yelling, wanted an excuse to hit someone, but there was no one to blame. He knew Howard was right and he knew it wasn't his fault that they'd come up empty. Just like it wasn't Millington's fault that all they'd found was the god damn Tesseract.

The tension bled from him in shivers; between harsh breaths. His fist ached where he'd brought it down on the metal console. He hadn't a clue what to do. He didn't want to resign himself to the loss but he didn't see any other option.

"I can't just leave him out here to rot." His voice had dropped to hoarse whimper.

Stark stepped around the end of the instrument panel and put his hand on Bucky's shoulder. He looked more sincere and serious than Bucky had ever known him to be.

"Call it a burial at sea, then."

"You promised, Stark." His voice cracked and it drove him nuts. "You promised we'd find him."

"I make a lot of promises I can't keep. It's something I'm working on."

Bucky ran shaking fingers through his hair. "You're doing a shitty job."

Howard huffed; it would have been a laugh if any of them had been in the mood to laugh. "Yeah, tell me about it."

The tension in the room sloughed away and was replaced by a cold solemnity. They'd all wanted to find Steve; every damn one of the men on the ship had wanted to bring Captain America home. They may not all have shared Bucky and Peggy's feelings for him, but he'd been their hero too. And making sure he got a proper burial was the best way they could honour him. Heading home with their tails between their legs felt like a defeat.

Bucky remained in his cabin for a majority of the trip back to port. He only emerged to use the head and to take meals that he picked at, his appetite having long since fled. Peggy was much the same. Only Howard seemed to have sufficient will to do anything. Bucky didn't care to think about how many hours he'd spent watching out the porthole as the ocean passed them by. In his sleep he dreamt of falling and of the scream of a plane's engines before it crashed into the ice with no sound but an endless static.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

They didn't stay much longer in London. Dernier was the first to leave; he returned to Burgundy and what was left of his family. Monty left for his family's estate soon after. Bucky had copied down their addresses and promised to write.

Orders came through the next day for the transfer of all SSR personnel and equipment back to New York. Technically the orders didn't include Bucky and he did briefly consider staying in England. It was a beautiful country. But everyone else was bugging out and heading stateside, so he followed.

They'd been on shore for a grand total of half an hour when word came through from the brass that Morita and Jones had been discharged. The war in Europe was over and the SSR was being downsized. The big wigs could afford to be choosy now and integration only went so far. Jim and Gabe both shrugged it off.

"What can you do?" was all Gabe had to say on it. Jim was at least optimistic enough to see it as a chance to go home. Once again there was an exchanging of addresses. They hung around for a few more days, but eventually their buses came in and they were gone.

Phillips told the rest of them that orders wouldn't be in for a while yet and left them to their own devices, which ended with them being wined and dined on Howard's dollar. Bucky was certain that the suit he wore that night was worth more than his apartment and all his belongings put together. He couldn't deny that he looked good, he just wished that Steve could have been there.

Dugan ended up being transferred to Washington and Peggy was in limbo. Awaiting reassignment, she got herself an apartment in Brooklyn. At least he wasn't losing _all _his friends.

There was a funeral. An empty casket was buried beneath a tall, white headstone at Arlington. Bucky would have said a few words if he'd have been able to speak without breaking down. Peggy managed to choke out a eulogy and even succeeded in keeping her stiff upper lip. And when the folded flag was handed, without hesitation, to him he wondered who she'd had to threaten to make it happen.

The flag now occupied a small corner of one of his drawers; one that had once held all of Steve's clothes. It didn't seem fair that all that was left of him now was a damn flag. He'd cried when they'd handed it to him, he'd cried beside the headstone for an hour after the service, and he'd cried every time he looked in the drawer. And he'd been right. The apartment was empty and quiet now. It didn't feel like a home.

It wasn't just the apartment either. The whole world felt different, as if he were trapped in some sort of dream. For a few days he heard from no one, not even Peggy. Stir-crazy and beginning to feel like he was losing his anchor in reality, Bucky went out. There was only one place where he'd truly had friends.

Owen's was still exactly where it had been before the war. The decor had changed a bit; a touch more patriotic but not distasteful. It was still dimly lit, it was still cheap like borscht, and it was still full of queens. Bucky slipped in the front door feeling liked he'd finally come home. In seconds, the strange feeling that had been hanging around him like a fog all week was gone. The air wasn't as smoky as he remembered it but he didn't really give a damn. He'd quit long ago.

"Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in."

For the first time since the boat, Bucky smiled. He knew that voice and he'd been hoping to run into its owner.

"James Buchanan Barnes. If it ain't our resident hero."

Bucky crossed to the booth, shrugging off his coat. "I'm hardly a hero, Clara, but thanks for the vote of confidence."

Clara planted her hands on her hips. "You were a Howling Commando. That's about as hero as it gets. I've seen your reels. And I thought I told you to call me Connie." She appraised him for a second and he knew she was probably taking note of every tiny change in him. He knew they wouldn't be hard to spot. He didn't have tiny changes. He had glaringly obvious ones.

"Do I really look that bad?" he asked when the moment dragged on.

Clara's eyes returned to his. "You look just fine, Bucky. Now come here," she demanded and wrapped her arms around him. Bucky leaned into it, beyond grateful to have found an anchor in his world.

When they parted Clara looked him up and down again. "You look miserable, you old wolf. What's wrong?"

"You didn't hear the news?"

Clara hung her head. "I did. I'm sorry... You better have told him."

Bucky handed her his discharge papers in lieu of an answer. She frowned as she unfolded the blue paper.

"Section eight, not eligible for reenlistment, induction, or reinduction. Son of a bitch." She tossed the papers back at him. "Bastards."

"Hey, don't complain. I could be patrolling Berlin right now on some miserable occupation post." He wasn't sure he was successful in injecting any levity. Clara sure wasn't smiling.

"I can't believe they did that to you. After everything you've done."

Bucky sat down, sliding to the back of the booth. "It's all right, Clara. Really." He wished he could sound more convincing.

She flopped down, dejected. "Well I guess someone here had to end up with a discharge. Sucks that it had to be you."

He looked around. The place was fairly full, which wasn't unusual for this time of day, but he didn't recognize anyone in the booths. There were a few of the old-timers at the bar, but even Pip was subdued. They guy was usually an unrepentant flamer. That set off alarm bells.

"Where is everyone? Was there a raid?"

She shook her head. "No. But most of the boys went off to war. A few of my girls too. Joey, Nate, Izzy, and Tom all got themselves killed on Okinawa. Ken, Christian, and all their boys were in Europe. I haven't heard anything about them."

"Jesus, that's almost everyone!" It felt like a gut punch. As if Bucky needed any more of those. "What about Jack and Hillman?"

"Moved out west. They're in San Fran. Same goes for Wanda. And Deirdre's in Santa Fe."

Bucky drooped. Damn, he'd gone to war for three years and his whole family had moved away without him. "So who's left?"

"Bonnie and I stayed put. Pip's staying. Rita and Mae won't leave 'til the place burns down, crazy old queens that they are." Clara shrugged. "Hannah and Kath are due back in a few days. They were WACs, but they're all being discharged. All of Wanda's friends were WAVEs, but I don't know if they're coming back. We didn't really get along."

"Understatement." They ordered drinks and Bucky decided that his morale needed a change of subject. "So. How are you and Bonnie holding up? Last time I saw you I was dragging you around a science fair."

Clara's smile was a welcome respite from the gloom he'd been wading through. "We're doing okay. She's moved in with me." She waggled her eyebrows. "She's still not that great a dancer. Maybe you should get her out on the town. Teach her some moves."

"I'm a little out of practice."

She waved away the protest. "You're the best dancer I know. An' besides, you need to get out, too. Put a smile back on that sad little face."

Bucky said nothing. He and Steve had never had a chance to be together, but now that he knew that Steve had felt the same... The very idea of getting out on the town and finding someone new felt like cheating. It was stupid, he knew that, but it felt wrong.

"I don't know if I'm ready for that, Connie." He'd never understand her insistence on the rhyming names, but whatever. "I haven't quite let him go."

"I'm not trying to set you up, Barnes. Relax." She crossed her arms like his mother had when she'd started scolding him. "We'll go down to Coney Island or Central Park or something. You can relax—"

"I'm not going to Coney Island. Not—" He stopped. The island had been his and Steve's. He wasn't ready for it alone. But he wasn't going to say that.

Clara squeezed his arm and bit her lip. "All right. The Park it is, then."

The bell over the door chimed and Bonnie swept in, Mae in tow. Clara waved them over, starry-eyed, and Bonnie shrieked.

"Bucky! You crazy bastard! You're alive!"

He was barely out of the booth when he was enveloped in a crushing hug and a face full of blonde curls. When he escaped her, Mae pulled him in one-armed and ruffled his hair.

"What took you so long, kid?" His make-up was subdued and he wasn't wearing a wig. Bucky wondered just how bad the homefront had got that Mae was toning it down. But that was a question for another day. For now he was just happy to be home and to have someone to come home to.

It was the middle of the night when they finally left Owen's. Mae and Rita—who'd arrived around dinner in a ridiculous red frock coat—made their way down the street to the trains and Bucky walked the girls home.

It wasn't the home he'd left, but it'd have to do.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

Two days later a letter dropped through the slot on his door. He recognized the official, government-issue envelope and the stamped seal on the front. SSR; Strategic Scientific Reserve. He couldn't think of any reason they would have for contacting him now and he glanced at the return address.

It was Peggy.

He opened the envelope with a certain hesitation. What reason could she possibly have for sending him official correspondence? She knew where he lived; she could have knocked on his front door.

He skimmed over the beginning of the letter and smiled. The SSR boys must have wanted very badly to keep her around if she could convince them of this.

_James,_

_I've been offered a posting at the Brooklyn office of the SSR. I've told them I'll only take the job if they hire you as well. I'll be taking lunch in the Charleston diner across the street from Owen's on Tuesday. If you're interested, that is._

_Peggy._


	3. Moving On Up

_Chapter Three: _Moving On Up

* * *

The hinges of the front door creaked, followed a moment later by the characteristic click of Peggy's heels. Bucky glanced at the clock, tossing away the bloody rags he'd cleaned his nose with. 7:30 AM, right on the dot. How did she keep such fantastic time?

He caught his reflection in the glass of the window and winced. His nose might not have been bloody anymore but there was no hiding that black eye. Or the split lip.

Peggy stepped into the room, arms full of papers. She dropped them on her desk and peeled off her coat. Her hair had grown in the last year, now tumbling over her shoulders where it had once been suspended in curls just above. Glancing over at him, she straightened her desk and then crossed to Bucky's, stopping, considering him for a moment and sighing.

"You know, I'm starting to think you like getting punched."

Bucky smiled up at her and felt fresh blood drip down from the split in his lip. His brow was throbbing and he figured the eye was going to get worse before it got better. "You should see the other guy. Not my fault Flynn keeps getting those thugs to sit out there and wait for me." His knuckles creaked as he moved his hand. "Not a morning goes by where they aren't yellin' fag as I come in the front door."

Peggy's lip twitched. It hadn't taken Bucky long to peg that as her tell. It was how he knew she was angry.

"And how did you end up with all this?" She waved a hand to indicate the black eye, broken nose, split lip, and bruised knuckles.

"They started pushing me around after I told 'em to get a real job. Figured I'd show 'em who's boss."

She let out a breath that wasn't quite a snort of derision, but was close enough. "You should come in later. You don't need to be up with the sun, do you?"

"You know I have to work twice as hard around here to get half the respect." He sat back, his chair creaking as he set his feet on his desk. "And I know you know that, otherwise you wouldn't be here at the crack of dawn either."

"Then perhaps we should arrive together. I think it's time someone reminded the ingrates that these are government premises and unauthorized loiterers will be removed, arrested—"

"Hospitalized."

"—deported." She arched a brow and Bucky shrugged.

"I told you, you should have seen the other guy."

The sound of car doors closing was Bucky's cue to swing his feet off his desk, sit up straight and look like he was working harder than he was. The problem with that being that he didn't have anything to do. All the analysis went to Peggy and all the field work went to the other agents. They had a secretary for administrative paperwork, which left Bucky with absolutely nothing to do.

Hey, at least he got paid.

Flynn sauntered into the office with his coat over his arm and the rest of his agents behind him like some schoolgirl clique. To his credit, he at least _tried _to look surprised at Bucky's condition.

"Working, I hope, ladies."

Peggy's eye roll was a sight to behold and Bucky had to fight a snicker. If at all possible, she was more enraged about Flynn's insufferable habit of referring to Bucky as a woman than he was. He knew it was because she'd been the one to get him the job and now she had to watch the treatment he was subjected to day in and day out. It had been three months and neither of them had been given a field assignment. Sometimes he really wanted to pull the Howling Commando card. Damn it, he'd fought a war and these pencil-necks didn't think he could handle lifting heavy boxes, let alone actual missions.

Bucky flashed Peggy a rueful smile. She returned to her desk to flip through folders and Bucky settled in for another day of nothing. Then the alarms went off.

They were all on their feet in seconds, watching as Flynn took the call. Some small, irrational part of Bucky actually hoped that he'd finally get some field work. Maybe he'd finally get to prove himself. Flynn put the phone down, stepped out of his office, and everyone stopped just short of coming to attention.

"Miller, Johnson, Wilkes. Let's take them down."

Bucky slumped back into his seat. He should have known.

"Barnes," Flynn called, his patented false sincerity firmly in place. "Go fix us up some coffee, will you? The boys and I need a little pick-me-up."

He sighed, making his way toward the kitchen. "Sure thing, boss."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

The three agents returned not long after sundown. Bucky was penning a letter to his sister, Rebecca, on SSR letterhead to make it look like he had something to do. He knew Flynn must know better. After all, he would have been the one to give him orders and he never did.

He glanced down at the street below and the dented, bullet-riddled car. He was sure he'd read somewhere that they were supposed to be a covert organization but he was starting to think he'd misread. Flynn ran the place like it was the damn mafia. Subtlety was an art he did not possess.

Flynn and the agents were out of the office almost as quickly as they went in. It didn't strike Bucky as an appropriately long debrief but that was Flynn for you. He was holding his hat, his coat over his arm. Everyone else was packing theirs up too.

"Carter!" Flynn called, and for one second Bucky actually thought the miserable sod was going to invite her along. "The boys and I were heading out for a drink. You want to polish up those field reports on my desk? I appreciate it, darling."

Bucky restrained the urge to throw a paperweight at Flynn's head. He wouldn't have missed and wouldn't that have been awkward? All the other men in the room were getting up to go along and without hesitation, Bucky went to follow. If there was one thing he knew about the workplace it was that when your employer is inviting everyone out for a drink, you best tag along.

"Oh, and Barnes?" Flynn paused at the top of the stairs. "Can you make sure the new cipher books are on everyone's desks by morning? I'd invite you along but you'd be bored out of your mind. Not your sort of joint. Wouldn't want you getting arrested, now would we?"

_Wow, at least credit me with _some _self-control... _Bucky dropped his coat back down on his chair. He wasn't sure whether he was more relieved or disappointed. Spending time with Peggy would be infinitely more enjoyable than drinking with Flynn, but he was once again reminded of the divide between himself and the other men. He knew they would sooner treat Peggy as an equal than they would him. At least she was a normal woman. He was something unnatural—an invert, a perversion, something to be looked down on and pitied.

"Don't forget to lock up when you're done." Flynn was out the door a moment later, chatting with the other agents about cocktails. Once the door was closed Bucky heard Peggy grumble.

"Oh yes, because the two most experienced agents in this city are just going to forget to lock the door."

Bucky spun his chair around, grinning. "You should say that to his face next time."

"Mmm, yes. I just love job-hunting."

He rolled his eyes. "Look, he treats you like a child; he treats me like garbage. We can do better."

Peggy sighed, straightening everything on her desk into orderly piles and locking her drawers. "Believe me, if I thought there was anywhere else..."

"What about the FBI?"

"The FBI is not going to hire me, and they're certainly not going to hire you." She winced at her own sharp tone as she rose from her chair.

"I don't know, Peggy. You should hear the rumours about Hoover."

She cast him an amused look as she passed, heading for Flynn's office. "Hoover's a lunatic. I don't care if he's queer or not, he's a paranoid idiot."

"Tell us what you really think," he teased.

She emerged from the office with three folders; one marked MILLER, one marked JOHNSON, and the other WILKES. "Don't you have cipher books to distribute?"

Bucky stood, sighing theatrically. "Yeah, I guess I better get on that. Don't want to be here all night."

"Make me some tea while you're at it, coffee boy," Peggy called after him with a laugh.

"Eat me."

The cipher books weren't hard to find. It wasn't like there was much in the way of supplies sitting around in storage. The box was small and light enough that he carried it back into the offices in one hand. There were twenty books and twenty one-time pads; two each for everyone. Bucky had them distributed in less than five minutes. He gave Peggy hers last, tossing the empty box across the room to the garbage can and pulling up his chair. Peggy was already on her second report, double-checking everything. She hadn't bothered oven loading her typewriter. She'd long since learned that her revised copy was never used.

"Have you talked to your parents?"

Whatever Bucky had been about to say was derailed. He froze, swallowed hard, and bit his lip. When he remained silent, Peggy looked up at him.

"I'll take that as a yes..."

He nodded. "Yeah... yeah, I did." He slumped, leaning his elbows on her desk and running his fingers over his hair. Sympathy bled into Peggy's eyes. "They... They weren't pleased."

Peggy wet her lips and lowered her pen. "How do you mean?"

How did he mean? God, how could he explain the magnitude of vitriol that had been levelled at him? How could he explain the guilt and grief and disappointment? The memory of the conversation had been hanging over him for days. His brother's shock and disgust, his father's anger, his mother's tears. Rebecca hadn't been there, but she at least had already known. She'd known since '31 when she'd caught him slipping out to a drag ball. She'd never judged and Bucky silently blessed her for that. Esther, on the other hand, had been just as horrified as Thomas, though Bucky suspected she was simply trying to save face with their dad. Bucky knew she was planning to announce her engagement to a German guy from down the street and defending her queer brother wouldn't earn her any brownie points. The happier dad was, the more likely he'd be to say yes.

He wouldn't have believed it was possible to experience anything more painful than listening to Steve die, but he would have been wrong. Standing there, in front of his family, being told that he was an abomination, an affront to God and nature, and a disgrace to family and country, was the most painful thing he'd ever gone through. Just thinking about it made his eyes sting.

"My father told me that he never wants to see me again. Told me never to contact them, never to visit." He sat back, hitching one ankle on his knee in an attempt to look relaxed. "They've disowned me."

Peggy's lip did that twitch again. "I'm sorry, James."

"Don't be." His voice had dropped, low and ragged. "Families aren't perfect, right?" He bit the inside of his mouth and forced a smile. He was not going to cry about this at work. He'd cried in front of her enough. "Can't expect everyone to be okay with having a fag for a son."

"No. I suppose we can't." Peggy's mouth was a thin line. He suspected that if his parents were here she'd have a few choice words for them. "It's still infuriating."

Bucky felt the corner of his mouth twitch into a wan smile. He was about to say something when the alarms howled to life. Red, strobing light flared in the darkened office. The phone on Flynn's desk was ringing.

They held each other's gaze for a second and a grin spread over Bucky's face. Without a word, Peggy bounced from her seat and positively jogged into the office. Bucky craned around to watch as she snatched up the receiver and after a moment's pause began hastily jotting down notes.

Protocol required that she leave the notes on Flynn's desk and let him deal with it in the morning. The problem was that by the time morning rolled around, the information wouldn't be any good. Zodiac would have moved on and they'd have lost a good lead. There was no way Peggy was going to leave this. Bucky knew her well enough to know what she was about to do. She was too much like Steve for her own good.

"Locked position on Zodiac. I'm going," she announced, darting from the director's office. "Want to come along?"

He couldn't deny that the offer was tempting. Three months was a long time to be with an agency without any field ops, especially when you were accustomed to commando operations. But this was Peggy's. And someone needed to finish those reports.

"This one's yours, Pegs. I'll man the phone."

She looked surprised. "You've been wanting field work as long as I have..."

"Yeah, and I had my fair share with the Commandos. It's your turn," he said; then, in a teasing tone, added: "Unless you need babysitting."

Peggy scooped up her bag, stuffing the note and the loaded pistol from her desk into it. She smiled. "I should be quite all right, Sergeant Barnes." She grabbed her coat.

"I'm not a Sergeant anymore."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Sure you are." And then she was down the stairs and out the door. Bucky wondered if Zodiac would even know what hit them.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

"Don't get cute with me, Lady. You took a mission last night."

Bucky watched over the top of his newspaper, determined not to intervene. Peggy was a hell of a dame and she could handle busting Flynn's tiny, shrivelled balls all on her own. So he pretended to read about the Soviet's posturing in Berlin while listening in on Flynn's impotent whinging.

"I _completed_ a mission last night." To her credit, Peggy sounded infinitely patient. Bucky smirked.

"Without even attempting to report in or get the proper authorization."

"The mission was time sensitive."

"There are protocols in place. No one is above protocols. Not even Captain America's old flame."

There was a long pause and Bucky half expected Peggy to slap the bastard. Instead, her voice took on an edge that he'd only ever heard her direct at captured HYDRA officers.

"How dare you."

Flynn was undeterred. "Please, let's stop pretending, shall we? Everyone knows why you're here, and everyone knows why you were allowed to drag that fruit along with you."

Bucky clenched his teeth and once again contemplated the paperweight on his desk. It was easy to calculate the trajectory and force necessary to hit Flynn in the head with it. It would have been so easy.

"Please, enlighten me."

"You were grieving, so they kept you on so that you would feel useful. God knows why they thought that keeping the fag was a good idea. I think they were just afraid he might blow his own head off. I call it pity."

That was it. The last straw. Bucky slapped his newspaper down on his desk loud enough to turn every head in the room.

"Fuck you, Flynn."

The agent gaped at him like he'd just spoken in tongues, but before he could react in any other way, Peggy piped up.

"If they wanted to make me feel useful they wouldn't have made me work for you."

The phone in Flynn's office was ringing but for a moment he ignored it. His eyes flicked between Peggy and Bucky and he scowled. Straightening up, he backed toward his office and the siren call of the telephone, but jabbed an imperious finger at both of them along the way.

"You are both going to answer for that."

He slammed his office door and to the flabbergasted faces of the other agents Bucky just shrugged. "Next guy to call me a fag gets a paperweight in the face. Got it?"

There were a few gulps and several uncertain nods. Good enough. He glanced at Peggy but she didn't meet his gaze. Her head was down and she was massaging her temples.

"Hey, Peggy. Come on, you know it was high time someone bust his balls."

Her face was resigned when she stood, straightening her hair and pulling out a file box. "Yes, and I think we're both out of a job. I hope you're happy."

He knew there was a file box under his desk. He'd put it there the previous night. But he was not going to start packing unless Flynn made him. He was not going to admit defeat without making the little slug work for it.

"It was worth it." He tossed his newspaper in the trash. "I'll just have to go work at Macy's with the rest of the queers."

"You're better than that."

"No." Bucky poked his finger against the top of his desk. "I'm better than _this_."

Flynn exited his office with a strange stiffness to his walk. His anger was still there but it was as if he'd forced it down beneath the surface. Bucky and Peggy shared a glance. Flynn looked like he'd just been scolded by his mother.

"Agent Carter," he began, his voice scraping like he was reluctant to speak. "It is my honour to inform you that you are going to run SHIELD."

Bucky's eyebrows shot up. No wonder Flynn looked like he'd been castrated. _God bless you, Howard._

"And I'd also like to assist you in carrying your personal items down to your car."

Wow. Servile and everything. He wished he had a reel of film. This would have been great viewing later.

Peggy's back was straight, head held high and the tiniest touch of a smirk on her face. She lifted the box off her desk with ease, the photo of Steve on top, in full view.

"Thank you, Agent Flynn, but as has always been the case, I don't require your help." She walked out without another word, winking at Bucky as she passed. Bucky smirked and kicked the file box out from under his desk. He didn't have much to put in it. He didn't bother keeping any of his personal effects at work. Wasn't like he was attached to the place.

"Just where the hell do you think you're going?"

The paperweight was the last thing to go in the box. "Let's be honest here, Flynn. The second she was out that door you were gonna fire me." Bucky hoisted the box and stepped out from behind the desk. "So I'm saving you the trouble. I quit."

Flynn scowled. "Oh yeah? And where are you gonna find a job, huh? Not everyone hires cocksuckers. I've been good to you, Barnes."

"Sure. That's why your bully-boys have been outside every morning waitin' to pounce." He headed for the stairs with a spring in his step. "'Sides, I hear SHIELD's hiring."

The sound of the door clattering shut behind him was one of the best things he'd ever heard.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

"Well aren't you two a sight for sore eyes."

Bucky brushed his hair back with a teasing wink. "Always knew you had good taste, Howard."

Stark laughed, shaking Bucky's hand and kissing the back of Peggy's. As usual, his suit was immaculate and his mere presence managed to make Bucky feel like a slob by comparison. It didn't help that he was still tired and unkempt from the early morning flight from New York and the late night packing beforehand. The DC heat was getting to him, too. There wasn't as much shade in the capitol as there was back home.

"Welcome to SHIELD headquarters," Howard said, gesturing around at the wooded park. "I know she doesn't look like much..."

"She looks like an island with trees, Stark." Bucky wasn't close to successful at hiding his uncertainty.

"Patience, pretty boy. This is just the front lawn."

"You didn't get the Langley site?" Peggy asked as Howard led them along a path marked with construction indicators.

"Nope. OSS has that snapped up. God knows what they're going to do with it. I heard they were being disbanded." He shrugged. "Then again, so is the SSR."

"How many of the SSR personnel are transferring over?"

Howard glanced at Peggy over his sunglasses. "All the good ones. Don't worry, Flynn's dead weight. The FBI can have him."

"So we're building our secret headquarters on Roosevelt Island in the middle of DC?" Bucky was sceptical and it showed in his voice.

Howard looked at him like he was the class dunce. "SHIELD's existence isn't a secret. It's what we do that'll be classified. All the really shady stuff goes to Camp Lehigh anyway."

The path gave way to pavement a few feet before the trees ended. Grass lawns and paved roads were bathed in bright sunlight. There was a small parking lot and an as-yet unmanned security gate. But the view was dominated by the three rectangular buildings that curved along the spine of the island. They weren't the tallest buildings Bucky had ever seen but the scale of them was impressive nonetheless.

"What, did you get the same architect as the Pentagon?"

"Yes, actually. It seemed fitting." Howard looked pleased with himself. "We'll undoubtedly end up expanding, but for now, everything that is, was, and will be SHIELD will happen in this building."

Bucky didn't quite know what to make of it. Before the army he'd been working two or three jobs as opportunity permitted, none of which ever took him anywhere swankier than a warehouse. It was difficult to imagine working in a monolith like the one before him.

Howard gave him and Peggy another moment to stare at the complex before he cleared his throat. "Come on. I'll show you the inside."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

The entranceway was cleaved in half by a line of security desks. None of them were manned yet but there was room for at least twenty security clerks.

"Not taking any chances, I see." Bucky passed through one of the gates, his head on a swivel.

"None. You'll all be issued ID cards that you'll have to present upon entering the building." Howard led them through a set of double doors as he spoke. The foyer beyond may have been an indoor space, but it was open, bright, and smelled of fresh air. There were planter beds framing the space and dividing it into two long columns. There were benches, tables, a fish pond. Two long skylights ran the length of the building, giving the impression that the central strip of the structure was floating above their heads. It was the largest, most beautiful waiting room that Bucky had ever stepped foot in.

Howard led them to the far wall and the bank of elevators. "This is A Block. All the administrative offices will be on the lower floors. Our offices are on the top floor." He jabbed the up button. "B Block is R and D, labs, security. All that jazz. C Block is storage mostly, but we've got a firing range and the motor pool. I wanted an airstrip but Truman vetoed that."

"Where does our air traffic come in? Washington National?" Peggy asked as they stepped into the elevator.

"Yup. I'm working on getting us a private runway, but until then we fly in with everyone else. Priority landing only in emergencies."

"What constitutes an emergency?" Bucky asked, his tone turning conspiratorial.

Howard chuckled, finally removing his sunglasses. "I like the way you think, Barnes."

The elevator came to a halt with a chime and deposited them in a long narrow reception space. There were tables and two deposit slots in what appeared to be a security desk off to the right of the elevators. But the first thing that caught Bucky's eye was the massive seal mounted on the wall directly opposite the doors. It was the first thing visible upon stepping out of the elevator and it spanned almost the entire distance from floor to ceiling. In the center was an eagle, black on gold, wings flared and talons outspread. On its breast was a small, star-spangled shield like the one Steve had used during his USO tour. Around the edge, in white lettering, read: STRATEGIC HOMELAND INTERVENTION and ENFORCEMENT, LOGISTICS DIVISION.

"You really wanted our name to spell SHIELD, didn't you?" Bucky teased.

"It was Carter's idea, actually."

Peggy looked embarrassed for a moment before returning to her cool, professional demeanour. "I thought it fitting. An organization to shield the world from things we don't understand and cannot control."

_And in Steve's memory_ was the unspoken addendum.

"Anyhow..." Howard led them through a door marked 'West Hall' and down the corridor beyond, which ran the length of the building back the way they'd come. There were a few offices at the north end, all accessible from the glass-walled central concourse where several dozen desks were arranged in a similar fashion to Flynn's place. Bucky noted that the glass was sound-proofed.

"Which one's mine?" He asked, looking out over the empty desks.

Howard laughed. "Are you kidding me? I'm not putting you behind a typist's desk, Barnes. You're a founder." He waved them further along the hall, past a set of heavy doors that were in the process of being fitted with some kind of electronic card reader. Beyond was a short hall with five doors. The one at the end was painted with the same seal as the reception area, and the other four were unmarked but for narrow plaques. Howard rapped his knuckles against the door to his right. "This one's yours."

Bucky swallowed, his eyes scanning across the gold lettering on the plaque. _J.B. BARNES_. "The whole office?"

"Yeah, Barnes. The whole office. It's all yours." He smiled for a second and then led Peggy onward to the next door along. "You're over here, right across from me..."

Bucky paused outside the door, uncertain. A whole office to himself. After the way he'd been treated by Flynn it was far more than he'd anticipated. It was a show of how much the bastard had lowered Bucky's expectations.

"Well look who's movin' up in the world," he muttered to himself and pushed open the door.

If the hallways and reception areas had been designed to look futuristic and minimalist, the office was trying to outdo the White House for formality. The walls were wood-panelled. The desk looked like an antique, 18th or 19th century. There were empty shelves on either side of the door, filing cabinets on the east wall, and a big, high-backed swivel chair. The SHIELD seal perched above the massive window, itself framed by ornate black-out curtains in a deep, formal blue. The crown moulding and the carpet looked like they'd been lifted straight from the Oval Office. There were tables, display cases, framed photos, and a set of stylish armchairs in front of his desk. A matching couch sat against the south wall.

"Christ." Bucky let out a breath. If someone had shown him this office in '41 and told him he'd be working in it five years later he'd have laughed in their face.

He stepped around the desk and looked out the window. The entrance was below him, the island a mass of trees broken only by the incomplete parking lot. In the distance he could see the looming bulk of the Pentagon. It was a hell of a view.

"I take it you like it."

Bucky turned and found Peggy standing in his doorway. She looked genuinely happy for the first time in a long while.

"Howard really pulled out all the stops," he replied, running his hand along the back of the chair—his chair. "Did he buy this from the President or did he just burgle the White House?"

Peggy snickered. "No. No burglaries; just a fat chequebook."

"Must be nice."

"Don't fret. You should see what we're being paid." She grinned. "You'll have a fat chequebook of your own soon enough."

There was something off in her tone. "I'm guessing you didn't come to talk about chequebooks."

"No." She reached into her bag and retrieved a small box. "I came to give you this."

The box was heavier than it looked and he knew what it was before he'd even opened it. It was a medal box. He'd had a few himself before the Army had taken them all away. He looked up at her and back down at the box as he opened it. He swallowed.

There, polished and perfect, was a Medal of Honour. Steve's.

"I thought you should have it. He got it for rescuing you, after all."

Bucky ran his thumb over the gleaming gold star. He remembered seeing it pinned to Steve's chest. It looked different in sunlight than it had in the incandescent glow of the SSR bunker, but the sight of it nonetheless sent a stab of old grief through him. God, had it really been a year? Over a year... A year and four months.

He bit his lip and closed the box, setting it down on his desk. "Thanks, Peggy."

Some weight appeared to lift off of her shoulders and her smile looked less strained. "I'll see you at dinner tonight. Howard's treating us."

"What, again? I'm gonna end up with a complex." Peggy left his office laughing and Bucky called after her, mirth in his voice. "I hope he's not expecting me to put out."

He dropped down into his chair, still chuckling, and surveyed his kingdom. Howard had chosen the trimmings well. There were only a few pictures that Bucky felt like changing. Stark may have been proud of the Manhattan Project, but Bucky didn't want to have to look at the obliteration of Nagasaki every single day. The shelves and display cases were empty, awaiting whatever Bucky chose to fill them with.

But it was the framed photo on his desk that arrested his attention. It was grainy and monochrome, taken with a field camera, but it was the most beautiful thing he'd seen all day. It was a photo from the day after the rescue; him and Steve side-by-side, smiling like idiots. He didn't look as much like a corpse in the photo as he had the previous day, but he was thin, gaunt, and unshaven, cheekbones pronounced and eyes shadowed. He'd never quite realized how much weight he'd lost during that time with HYDRA, and looking at the picture now was strange. By contrast, Steve glowed like the sun, clean-cut and perfect. Bucky ran his fingers over the glass, some measure of the butterflies he'd always felt around Steve returning as he looked at the frozen image of his smile. What he wouldn't have given just to touch him one more time.

"I figured you'd appreciate that."

Bucky didn't take his eyes off the photo, lost in the little creases at the corners of Steve's eyes. "Where did you get it?"

"Old files. To be honest, it was Phillips that found it." Howard leaned on the doorframe. "I thought it'd look nice on your desk."

Bucky smiled, wistful, at the picture a moment longer. "Yeah, it does. You'll have to thank him for me."

"Thank him yourself. He'll be at dinner tonight." He paused. "Which reminds me... I am taking you to get yourself a couple of suits. You're white collar now; you need to look it."

"Do I really?" Bucky sat back and crossed his arms. "I'm starting to feel spoiled."

"If it makes you feel better I can take it off your first paycheck."

He rose with a laugh. "Deal. When do we start?"

"Officially? A week. Unofficially? Tomorrow."

Bucky let out a breath of mock surprise. "Wow. Well I guess we'd better go get those suits, sugar-daddy."

Howard barked with laughter, clapping Bucky on the shoulder and leading him back out into the hall. "I missed you, Barnes."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

The final surprise of the day came once they'd returned to the foyer. Three very familiar faces were waiting with Peggy.

"Oh man, I hope you're not hiring these idiots," Bucky remarked to Howard, sure to be loud enough for the others to hear. The three men turned and Bucky grinned.

"Good to see you too, Sarge," Morita replied, with a teasing punch to Bucky's shoulder. Dugan ignored the playful jibe altogether.

"How you been, kid?" he asked, tugging Bucky into a one-armed hug.

"All right." He was grinning so wide his face hurt. For all his teasing, he was over the moon about seeing them all. "How about you guys?"

"Bored and unemployed," Gabe replied.

"We're in the same boat as you." Morita added. "It ain't easy getting a job when you're an 'enemy alien' or you have to add 'coloured' to your classified ad. 'Course, Dugan here's been doing well for himself."

Dugan waved him off. "A desk job at the DOD is _not _doing well for myself. It's a paycheck."

"Depends on where you're standing." Bucky let Gabe pull him into another hug. "You gonna be at dinner tonight?"

"Yes, sir. You think I'm gonna pass up an expensive dinner on Stark's dollar?" Gabe replied.

Bucky laughed. "Dumb question, I know. I'm just..." How did he put it?

"Happy to see us?" Gabe offered.

"I don't know if that's the right word."

"Hah! The Sarge is still the Sarge all right." Morita headed for the path and Stark and Peggy's retreating forms. Dugan and Gabe followed, steering Bucky along with them.

"I hear Stark's taking you shopping," Dugan said. "So I thought I'd tag long. Don't want Howard makin' you look like a sleaze, now do we?"

"No, we do not."


	4. Strange Aeons

_Chapter Four: _Strange Aeons

* * *

**May, 1947**

The dry-cleaning was safe and sound in the back seat of his car when Bucky heard the shout and the unmistakable crunch of knuckles on a face. He looked at his watch. He really shouldn't get involved; he was already nearly late and it wasn't every day that you were asked to appear at a House Un-American Activities Committee hearing. But he'd heard the word that had been spat in the nearly alley and he wasn't about to walk away.

He slammed the door of his car shut and marched around the corner. Halfway down the alley was a short, stocky brunet with his fists clenched and bloodied. Below him, sprawled on the pavement, was a slight redhead with a broken nose and blood dripping onto his shirt.

"You want some more, nancy?"

The redhead pushed himself to his feet. "Fuck you, pal."

The big guy went to swing and Bucky stepped forward. "Hey!" Both of the men froze, the brunet turning to face him. "Back off," Bucky growled, putting himself between them.

"Mind your own business, asshole," the brunet spat. Up close he was even more of a meathead than Bucky had originally thought.

He reached into his pocket, sure to subtly reveal the Colt in his shoulder holster, and withdrew his SHIELD badge. "It _is _my business. Everything is my business. Now back off."

The guy snarled. "What the fuck do you care?"

"I don't like bullies." He slipped his badge back into his pocket. "Now take a powder before I give you a black eye."

It was clear that the jerk wasn't done but he had at least enough brain cells to conclude that continuing the fight was a bad idea. Bucky watched him retreat and made sure he was gone before he turned to the staggering redhead.

"You okay?"

"I had him on the ropes."

Something twisted painfully in Bucky's chest. It was like stepping back in time. For a second he could almost see the scrappy little blond back in Brooklyn with his bloody knuckles and bruises.

"Yeah. Sure seemed like it."

The redhead drew himself up to his full height and planted his hands on his hips. "I don't need your help."

Bucky huffed. _Yup, just like Steve. _"What's your name, kid?"

"Liam." The name was offered with a defiant jut of his chin. "Liam Murphy."

Bucky held out his hand. "James Barnes."

Murphy's eyes widened. "Bucky Barnes? The... the Howling Commando?"

"The very same." He didn't know what to make of the unsullied wonder on the guy's face. He was—had been—used to seeing people look at Steve like that, but not him.

"They gave you a blue discharge, didn't they?" There was no hint of judgement or derision in Murphy's tone.

"I'm that famous, am I?"

"It was all over the papers. 'Howling Commando discovered as pansy'. 'Bucky Barnes out on blue discharge'. They, uh... They killed you off in the comic and everything."

Bucky had hated the comic ever since the first issue was sent over to their HQ in London. They'd always written Steve wrong, written Peggy wrong. Dugan and Falsworth were fairly accurate, but Jones, Morita, and Dernier may as well not have existed. And to top it all off, they'd turned him into some fifteen-year-old sidekick in tights who hadn't met Cap until basic and came from Indiana, of all places. The only thing he had in common with his comics counterpart was a name.

"How did loyal Bucky meet his demise?" he asked with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

"Exploding plane."

Bucky flinched. Screaming engines and static hissed in his ears. _We'll have the band play something slow. I'd hate to step on your—_

"That'd do it," he replied, his tone carefully schooled. "Guess they didn't want me as a kids' hero anymore."

Murphy smiled bitterly. "My nephew still dresses up like you. His dad yells at him for it, but he's too young to understand why."

Bucky returned the bitter look. "Don't worry. He'll grow up to have a healthy hatred of my sort one day."

"Yeah. They all hate our sort." There was resignation in his voice. "I... I should go. I'm late and my boss'd probably like to get firing me over and done with before lunch."

"And I've got a committee to deal with..." Bucky almost walked away, but something got the better of him. He reached into his other pocket and withdrew a small card—white paper, a small SHIELD seal on it in full colour and the name J.B. Barnes printed in the corner. "If you're ever looking for a job where they don't mind our sort, phone the number on there. SHIELD's always looking to recruit."

Murphy stared at it, somewhere between awe and trepidation. "SHIELD? I'm just an accountant... what would I do at SHIELD?"

"Whatever you're good at." Bucky half-saluted and sauntered back toward his car. "Don't worry, there's a test," he called over his shoulder.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

"What is your point, Mr. Stark?"

Bucky slipped into the chair next to Peggy, mouthing "I'm sorry" and trying to draw as little attention as possible to himself. Thankfully the committee members were too busy being frustrated with Howard to notice his tardiness.

"My point is that SHIELD cannot function with an oversight committee; I don't care whether it's military or civilian, House or Senate. Our purpose is first response and investigation. I can't do my job if my agents can't even take a piss without getting paperwork in triplicate!" Howard looked livid.

"What the hell did I miss?" Bucky asked in a whisper.

"Nothing much," Peggy replied, her tone belying the indignation on her face. "Just the opening ten minutes of insults and insinuations and a lengthy sermon from Congressman Tanner on the reasons why SHIELD should have some sort of oversight to keep it in line. They want to make the HUAC overseer a permanent fixture."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Of course." Howard was still talking, jabbing his finger against the table, but the fat, greying politician in front of him managed to out-compete him for volume.

"As long as you insist on filling your ranks with foreign nationals and homosexuals—"

"Oh, so we're back to Carter and Barnes. What an incredibly circular argument."

"Mr. Stark, this committee is of the belief that your agents cannot be trusted with this nation's secrets. Barnes is a security risk of the highest degree."

"Give me a break! The fact that he's queer isn't a goddamn secret. What the hell are the Ruskies supposed to blackmail him with?"

The committee didn't appear to have an answer for that, but Tanner continued nonetheless. "Mr. Stark, that's quite enough. We understand that you are passionate about this, but the committee feels that you are, perhaps, too emotionally invested."

"Yes, well, I was promised autonomy for this organization and a year in the government is poking its nose in my business. The last thing anyone wants is for SHIELD to become just another bureaucratic bastard child of the House of Representatives."

"God knows we have enough of those," Bucky muttered so only Peggy would hear.

Tanner remained unmoved. "We would like to hear from Colonel Phillips now, if you don't mind."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

"You know, I'm actually glad Steve doesn't have to see this." Bucky knelt in the wet grass, running his fingers over the letters chiselled into the white headstone.

STEVEN GRANT ROGERS

MEDAL OF HONOR

CAPTAIN

UNITED STATES ARMY

JULY 4 1918

FEBRUARY 12 1945

No matter how often he came here, the words never stopped being painful.

"He'd be so disappointed. He didn't die for loyalty checks and red baiting."

Peggy squeezed his shoulder in silence. Howard said nothing, staring into the distance and seething. Bucky changed the subject.

"How many more hearings do you think they'll force us into?"

Howard shrugged, sucking rather ferociously on his cigar. "They'll keep calling us 'til they get bored and in the meantime every Zodiac goon in a hundred-mile radius is free and clear until we can get back to work."

"Dugan, Jones, and Morita are still working," Peggy reminded him. "They know what they're doing."

"They can't do anything about my projects, though." Howard blew a sizable cloud of smoke up toward the trees. "I haven't touched the repulsors in two weeks; haven't touched the reactor in three. I am so sick of listening to a bunch of jaundiced politicians jabber about communists."

"Don't forget the terrible, horrible homosexuals," Bucky sneered, his gaze fixed on Steve's headstone. The little cross above his name sat there, mocking him. Would he get one on his grave when he finally bought it? Did he even want one?

"Oh, yeah. Let's not forget about them." Howard was buzzing with frustration. "Honestly, what the fuck do they care if some guys like havin' other men shove their cocks up their asses? ...Sorry, Peggy."

Peggy raised an eyebrow. "That's quite all right, Stark. It's not as if we're in public."

Howard looked around at the fields, the McClellan gate, the orderly rows of white gravestones, and the few figures cowering under umbrellas who were either out of earshot or studiously ignoring every word. Peggy wasn't looking at him so he made a face at her.

"Why don't you take a break?" Bucky asked. "I can handle HUAC and you can get back to your lab before Jarvis destroys the place."

"I don't think anyone wants to be cleaning blood off the floor, Barnes."

"I can handle a few Republicans without a bloodbath, Howard. Where I worked before the war, if my coworkers had found out about me they'd have beat me to death in an alley _after _havin' their way with me. So I'm used to ignoring jibes and insults. It's called self-preservation. You might try it some time."

Howard looked at him, _really_ looked at him. The cigar sputtered in the rain until, almost absentmindedly, Howard took a long drag. "No, I can handle this. SHIELD's my baby; I'll defend her. You know what you can do?"

"Sit there and look pretty?"

"You can represent us in the Senate subcommittee hearing next week."

Bucky glanced between Howard and Peggy. "What subcommittee?"

"Oh, some booze-hound Senator from Wisconsin is looking to move up in the world and he's started a witch-hunt in the State Department and DOD. Now he's gunning for us."

"Diggin' for Commies?"

"No. Pansies." Howard scowled out at the green expanse of Arlington. "They're calling it the Lavender Scare."

"Not McCarthy!" Peggy was scandalized. "As if James hasn't been through enough! I am not letting you throw him to the wolves."

McCarthy. Bucky wasn't familiar with the name, but he had heard about a bunch of State and Defence department employees getting the boot on 'moral grounds'. He'd thought it had all been HUAC's doing.

"I'm not throwing anyone to the wolves, Carter." Howard looked Bucky up and down. "I'm siccing my wolf on them."

"So _now _you want a bloodbath?" Bucky crossed his arms. Peggy was scowling at Howard and he wondered what exactly he was in for if he agreed to go.

"It's the Senate, Barnes. Of course I want a bloodbath."

The set of Peggy's jaw reminded Bucky of the times he'd pulled Steve out of fights that the punk had wanted to finish. He stood, looking down at the grave one more time.

"If the muzzle's off, I'll do it."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

Bucky was officially scheduled to appear before what was rapidly becoming known as the McCarthy Committee on May 23rd. He had a week to prepare, though he couldn't fathom why everyone was so convinced that he was going to need to. The Senator from Wisconsin didn't intimidate him. He'd seen worse.

Four days before the hearing, word came in about a possible 0-8-4 in Montana. With Howard still tied up with HUAC, Dugan on assignment in Florida, and Jones undercover in the Yukon, the investigation fell to Bucky, Peggy, and Jim.

The flight into Billings was rough and miserable and Bucky white-knuckled most of the trip. There'd been a time when he'd loved the idea of flying. Now it came with visions of Steve plummeting to his death. The drive out to the little podunk town whose name was not on the map or the signs by the road was equally miserable. Nothing but bumpy, cratered roads for miles.

"So tell me," Bucky said around a mouthful of cheap scrambled eggs. "What is it we're here for?"

Peggy swallowed a mouthful of her oatmeal with a noticeable grimace and flipped open the file. "The object in question is a stone about the size of my fist. It's said to be dark in colour but with some manner of light effect towards the center." She pushed the file full of telegrams across the booth's table and nabbed a strip of bacon off of Bucky's plate before he could stop her. "Our good friend Agent Wilkes also noted that its exact shape was impossible to describe."

"Who's this Dexter guy?" Jim asked, guarding his own bacon with a subtly placed hand.

"Doctor Ambrose Dexter. As far as we know, he was the original owner of the stone. He's a consultant working at Los Alamos. He worked with Howard on the Manhattan Project."

"If he's in New Mexico then how did the stone get here?" Bucky asked, flipping through the printouts. A few of the telegrams mentioned case numbers from previous investigations by the SSR or the FBI as well as a few marked with the 'HY' that designated captured HYDRA files.

"According to records that Wilkes uncovered in Rhode Island, Dexter was believed to have thrown it in Narragansett Bay. Instead, he seems to have brought it with him. It was stolen from his Los Alamos office by a technician named Ivan Georgescu, who fled here about two months ago. He's been behaving erratically ever since." Peggy took another spoonful of oatmeal and then, with another grimace, gave up and pushed the bowl away. "The police are investigating him in fourteen missing persons cases and as of yesterday, Agent Wilkes makes fifteen."

"So we're looking for a sparkly rock and a missing agent." Bucky turned his plate so that his bacon was closer to him, earning a frown from Peggy. "What's our priority?"

"The stone. It's officially an 0-8-4 and that means its collection is considered imperative."

"Mission first. I get it." Jim chomped down his last strip of bacon and chased it with a gulp of coffee.

Peggy sighed. "I know it sounds a trifle unfair, but if it was the other way around, Wilkes wouldn't hesitate to put the stone first. So don't feel too bad about it."

Bucky slid out Wilkes' last cable. He'd used the most secure encryption SHIELD had, but he'd only written one sentence. _There is something in Georgescu's house._ That was all. It was the 'something' that sent a chill up Bucky's spine. If Wilkes had seen another person he'd have said 'someone'. So what the hell had he seen?

Peggy seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. "I want you to bring your rifle, James."

"What are we expecting to run into?"

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes flicking from Bucky's to Jim's. "Did you read Wilkes' notes regarding an incident in Providence?"

"That thing in '35?"

"Wilkes was not a superstitious man. Neither was he easily rattled. If there was a conventional explanation, he would have found it." She closed the file and Bucky noticed the tiniest tremor in her hand. "The last time I talked to him, Wilkes spent ten minutes apologizing for everything he'd said and done to us during our shared tenure under Flynn. It was like he was in a confessional."

Bucky swallowed. "He thought he was going to die."

Peggy nodded. "That's what I'm afraid of."

Bucky's appetite was rapidly fleeing. Jim looked equally queasy and he sat back, prodding at his eggs with his fork.

"That's why you didn't want to send anyone in alone."

The file was slipped back into Peggy's briefcase. "Yes, Jim. It is," she said. "It's also why I've requisitioned some special equipment."

Bucky took a deep breath. How bad could it really be? Worse than the weeks under Zola's knife? Worse than going up against HYDRA and a guy with a red skull for a face?

"It's just a rock, right?"

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

Georgescu's house was out on the edge of town—past the bowling alley, city hall, the dog park, right into the Desert Creek development and down the dirt track parallel to route 800, according to the chatty local who'd given them directions. Bucky still wasn't certain whether the guy had been flirting or if he was just _really_ friendly.

The house wasn't much; it was less a house and more a wooden shack. It probably predated the rest of the town by a considerable margin. He wouldn't have been surprised to see a covered wagon sitting out back. Needless to say, their jeep stood out like a sore thumb.

Peggy and Jim went to the front door and left Bucky in the vehicle, his hand on his submachine gun. There was no answer to their knocking and when Jim tested the doorknob the door swung open. Peggy poked her head in.

"Mr. Georgescu?" There was no response, but she tried again. "Mr. Georgescu, my name is Peggy Carter. I'm from SHIELD. Do you have a moment to talk?" Still there was no response.

"I'm thinkin' nobody's home," Jim said.

Peggy beckoned Bucky forward with a wave of her hand and he hopped from the jeep, his rifle slung over his shoulder. He took point, stepping over the threshold, and was immediately struck by the choking foetor hovering in the space.

"Shit. What is that smell?" He'd been on battlefields, he'd waded through bodies, he'd had comrades blown to pieces in front of him, but this was the worst thing he'd ever smelled. It seemed to come from everywhere at once; a nauseous mix of putrefaction and petroleum, smoke and sulphur. He heard Jim cough as he followed him in, and Peggy made a sort of queasy groan.

"All right, boys, let's make this quick, shall we?"

"Fine by me," Jim wheezed.

Bucky made a beeline for the windows. There was no way he was stomping around a house that smelled like every sewer in the world emptied into its sitting room. The shutters opened with a squeal of old hinges and sweet, grassy fresh air rushed into the darkened shack. Who knew dusty foothills could ever smell so good.

"I owe you a drink just for that," Jim muttered.

The shack was divided into three rooms, with no upper floor. The front door opened straight into the sitting room, which doubled as a kitchen. The wood fire stove and tiny sink had probably been new and fashionable in 1870. The furniture looked like it had been purchased around the same time but had long since mouldered and decayed. The bedroom was equally squalid. If Georgescu had actually lived here he'd left no indication. If Bucky hadn't known better he would have thought the shack had been vacant for decades.

With the smell dissipating it was bearable to wander around the structure. Jim started rooting through the cabinets in bathroom, which was surprisingly clean compared to the rest of the house. Peggy took the bedroom, opening drawers and pulling boxes from wardrobes and from under the ratty bed. Bucky remained in the sitting room, digging through piles of empty boxes and checking shelves for hidden compartments. Everything was covered in an impressive layer of dust and cobwebs. Moving the books had disturbed a black widow spider which Bucky had jumped back from with an entirely undignified noise. Jim had started whistling _the Itsy-Bitsy Spider_ and Bucky had cussed him out.

As dusk fell it was looking increasingly likely that they weren't going to find anything. The dust hadn't been disturbed. There was no sign, besides the clean bathroom and fresh wood in the stove, that anyone had lived here since the Great War. Bucky was about to say as much when he finally sussed out the one thing that had been nagging at the back of his mind.

The floor was dusty and unswept, his every move visible as a dark trail of footprints, except in the center of the room. The Persian rug beneath his feet was fresh as the day it had been sold. A three-foot radius all around it was clear as well; not swept, but blown away as if by the movement of a rug. He rolled his eyes. How could he have missed something so obvious?

Just to be certain, he stomped on the floorboards. Underneath the rug he heard a distinctly metal sound.

"Jim, Peggy! There's a basement."

There was a soft "Oh, great," from Jim and he looked exceedingly reluctant when he followed Peggy into the room. Bucky yanked up the rug. Loose floorboards rattled with the movement and he pulled those up too. Underneath was a metal hatch.

"Locked," Peggy observed. "I imagine our stone will be down there."

Bucky's laser cigarette made quick work of the lock and Jim eased the hatch open. The passage down was dark but beyond that they could see the faint glow of a few lightbulbs.

"I'd wondered why this old dump needed a breaker," Peggy muttered.

"We drawin' straws?" Jim asked.

"Why? Scared?" Bucky asked with a smirk before stepping onto the ladder and lowering himself down. A second later, he gagged. "I think I found the source of the smell." It was back full force and he had to fight the urge to dry heave.

"Hey, you didn't happen to requisition some gas-masks?" Jim asked.

"Unfortunately, I didn't."

Bucky reached the bottom and swept the space with his rifle. Nothing moved, though the darkness in some corners seemed to cling in an unnatural manner. There were more bookshelves, more crates, a desk strewn with papers in several languages, and a door with an odd branching symbol carved into it in a way that spoke of desperation.

Peggy joined him, holding her nose. "It's really quite putrid, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Makes me wonder what's behind door number one."

She considered the door for a moment, frowning. "Jim, stay by the jeep and the radio. If anything goes wrong, raise the Sheriff and get him to call SHIELD."

"Yes, ma'am." Jim sounded relieved to not have to follow them down. The sound of his retreating feet sent an irrational surge of adrenaline through Bucky. For some reason it felt like a bad idea to split up. "Let's get that anteroom over and done with."

The smell grew exponentially worse the moment the door was open and it didn't take long to see why.

"Oh my god."

There was a long table in the center of the room and spread out upon it was Wilkes. There was no question that he was dead. His torso was open from throat to hips, his organs mangled or missing. His ribs looked like they'd been dissolved rather than cracked open and there was evidence of acid damage to the tissue around them. Dried blood ran over the table and down its steel legs to pool on the floor. Bucky suppressed a shudder. He'd seen Zola do this to cadavers, but the look frozen on Wilkes' face suggested that he'd been alive when the cutting had started. And the skin at his bound wrists was torn ragged as if he'd struggled with every ounce of his strength. Christ, no one deserved to die like that...

"What the hell is going on, Peggy?"

"I don't know," she replied, sounding very much like she was about to be sick. "Let's just find the stone and get out. We can call in the FBI to figure the rest of this out."

Bucky nodded and tore his eyes from the grisly spectacle. Turning instead to the cabinets and counters, he searched mechanically, desperately keeping his view turned away from the mutilated corpse. There were books, there were tools, there were files from Los Alamos dated back to 1943, but no stones. There was only one more cabinet on his side of the room and as he moved to open it he realized that there was light seeping out from underneath the door.

Inside was an ornate gold box, lined on the inside with ivory and carved with horrific mythical creatures. Supported on spidery struts in the center was a stone, black with red veins. It looked somewhat as if it had been deliberately faceted, but with no regard for symmetry. If asked, Bucky could not have described an exact shape; it seemed to shift and change. Angles appeared both convex and concave simultaneously. It was giving him a headache and he would have turned away but something stopped him. Some inner compulsion kept him staring, transfixed, at the stone.

He could see what Wilkes had meant by light effects. The center of the stone seemed to shimmer and glow. The red striations became clouds of gas and dust; the inclusions stars. A thousand, thousand galaxies whirled and spun around him. Worlds of stone towers and desert monoliths rose before his eyes. Endless mountain ranges under burnt orange skies; battlefields full of blue-skinned men. Robed inhuman figures bowed in worship to strange icons. Haze in colours he had no name for gave way to vistas of frozen ocean with no land in sight. War fleets hung suspended in inky blackness, their leader gazing into the infinite void. He saw spires and battlements beneath the seas and a golden palace perched above a rainbow bridge. He saw dark vortices down which space and time drained away and not even light could escape. And he saw the endless blackness beyond, where there was only a liquid stirring and the sense that something was gazing back.

He was vaguely aware of a voice calling to him from far off; calling his name. All he could focus on was the stirring that was drawing him ever nearer. He could feel something viscous and warm slithering up his arms and down his throat.

"James!"

Bucky blinked, his eyes dry and his head spinning. His heart was hammering in his chest. He stared, mute, at Peggy for a moment and wondered how many times she'd called before he'd snapped out of it.

"I think I found it," he remarked, dizzy and disoriented.

"I noticed. Now try not to look at it. Wilkes seemed to think that was a bad idea."

He glanced over his shoulder at the flayed remains of the other agent. "Don't look at it. Gotcha." He thought back to the first 0-8-4, the metal rectangle that had turned those HYDRA man into stone when they'd touched it.

"Don't close the box, either. It needs to be kept lit. Wilkes was adamant that the stone should under no circumstances be exposed to darkness."

"I'm getting the impression you know a hell of a lot more about this thing than you're letting on."

"I may have kept some details to myself. It's called compartmentalization." No sooner were the words out of Peggy's mouth than, with a groan of failing circuits, the lights died.

Adrenaline rushed into Bucky's veins and he blinked in an effort to force his eyes to adjust to the darkness. By feel alone, he found the safety catch on his gun and clicked it off. The blackness was absolute, like that which he'd glimpsed through the stone, and there was no acclimatizing. Reduced to groping blindly for some indication of where he was, Bucky scooped up the stone. Peggy snagged a handful of his jacket. It was far too late to worry about lighting the stone. They needed to get out of this room.

"Where were the breakers?"

"Outside."

Bucky felt along in front of him, grimacing when his hand landed on something wet and squishy. He padded fingers around the table, edging toward where he knew the door lay open. He wished he still had one of their old nickel-radios so he could check on Jim. There was no way Morita was the one who cut the breakers, and whoever had was out there with him. He was almost to the door when the darkness seemed to shift. There was a breeze—hot and rancid and coming from above them.

They weren't alone.

"There's something in here," Peggy whispered.

There was that 'something' again. Bucky prodded the doorframe with the muzzle of his gun and positioned himself directly in front of the open portal. "Go. Head for the ladder."

Peggy scooted around him, using him like a compass in the dark. When her hands left him, his only indication of her position was the click of her shoes. The depth of the darkness was disorienting and a wave of dizzy horror passed over him. He changed the rifle's setting to automatic.

There was a scuffle in the other room and a soft curse as Peggy blundered into a desk in her blind scramble for the ladder. A moment later her heels were on the ladder and there was an oily, gelatinous sound above Bucky. Primal, choking fear lanced into his stomach; the hairs on the back of his neck stood erect and his skin crawled with the urge to run. Instead, he did as he'd been taught in basic and on dozens of battlefields since. He squeezed the trigger.

The Sterling roared and bucked in his hands. Muzzle flash illuminated the two rooms in staccato bursts of phosphorescent glare. It was enough for Bucky to get his bearings and enough to see a glimpse of the thing in the room with him.

He rather wished he hadn't.

Taking up most of the anteroom, obscuring the cabinets and the table with Wilkes' body, was a seething mass of sludgy darkness. Tendrils that vaguely resembled limbs slithered through the doorway and clawed at the floor and ceiling, only recoiling when another squeeze of the trigger bathed them in light. The bullets didn't seem to bother the thing at all.

Bucky backed as rapidly as he could toward the ladder, careful to conserve ammunition and cursing himself for not bringing a flashlight. He took the ladder one-handed, bracing himself against the side of the passage and firing in spurts with his free hand to keep the horror at bay.

Peggy was waiting for him at the hatch and hauled him up, slamming the metal door behind him. "Bullets won't kill that thing."

"It's the light," he shouted, ears ringing from the gunfire.

There was a creak and Peggy gasped. Bucky wheeled around, bringing his rifle to bear. Standing in the corner near the stove, his features obscured in shadow, was Ivan Georgescu.

"Good heavens. Mr. Georgescu. We didn't know you'd come back."

Bucky eyed the windows. Where was Jim? Surely he'd heard the gunfire. He kept his finger squarely on the trigger. Something didn't feel right and he couldn't figure out whether it was because of the eldritch monstrosity in the basement or because of some other detail he'd failed to notice. Georgescu _was_ awful quiet.

"Hey, Ivan. You wouldn't happen to know about that thing in your basement...?"

Georgescu cocked his head and stared, unblinking, into Bucky's eyes. "You will become like him." The words were slurred in an odd way that his accent couldn't account for. It was like his tongue was too stiff to move.

"Care to elaborate, pal?"

Georgescu just stared, so Peggy tried again.

"Mr. Georgescu, I'm Peggy Carter. This is James Barnes. We're with SHIELD—"

"You will become like him."

Peggy was about to continue, unflappable as always, but Bucky waved her down. There was something wrong here, and like the dustless carpet, it had just taken him a while to figure it out. Even in the lightless room it was possible to discern the greyish pallor to Georgescu's skin and the milky emptiness of his eyes. His fingers were bent and seized and there was no pulse at his throat. He wasn't breathing either.

"Peggy, Ivan's not in there anymore."

"What, he's right—"

"He's dead, Peggy."

Her mouth worked silently as she turned back to Georgescu. Horror started to creep into her eyes and her hand went to her belt and the holstered revolver she carried. "How is a dead man walking around?"

"Your plan didn't include the dead guy?"

Georgescu twitched. "You will become like him."

"Like who?" Bucky snapped.

"Like this one. Like the doctor. You will become like this one. A vessel for my influence." Georgescu stepped forward, stiff and ungainly with rigor mortis. Bucky's pulse throbbed in his neck and he felt goosebumps rise on his skin. "You will become what you were meant to be. You will become a puppet; as you should have been." Ivan's dead hand lashed out and then with an almighty bang, he dropped, limp as a boned fish. Bucky jerked to the side.

Peggy's revolver was smoking, her hand steady. The fear that had been writ over her features before was gone. She was back to brisk, business-like Agent Carter.

"You know," Bucky remarked, moving to his feet. "Steve was right about you."

A soft grin tugged at the corner of Peggy's mouth, but she didn't get the chance to say anything. The floorboards shook beneath them and dust cascaded down from the roof beams. A picture frame fell from the wall in the bedroom with the smash of shattering glass. The metal hatch rattled and thumped. Bucky hauled Peggy to her feet and shoved her toward the door. "Go! Get to the car!"

They bolted and were leaping down the front steps when they heard something burst from the hatch. Every window in the cabin shattered and Bucky felt glass shards bounce off his jacket. A deeper blackness than the night air was flowing out of the windows and doorway. Bucky turned, raising his gun and spraying rounds at where the mass was reforming. The flare of light drove it back toward the shack. Peggy was yelling for Morita and then Bucky heard a click; a click and he was plunged into darkness.

_There's a reason they call it Dead Man's Click._

"Run!" Bucky howled, but he was drowned out by an unearthly roaring scream. It was the sound of a thousand Stukas diving at once, the sound of rending metal, the sound of incoming artillery. Bucky tried to run; tried to reach the car. Viscous blackness surged around him; obscured his view of the vehicle, of Peggy. A force like a blast wave threw him from his feet and sent him tumbling to the dusty earth. His head struck stone and his vision swam as the oily mass flowed over him. There was a crush like water holding down his legs and pressing his arms down on either side of his head. He could breathe, but only just, choked by the foetor. Distantly, he heard Peggy scream.

He could see it again, that endless nothing beyond the most distant reaches of the multiverse. The lightless void where something stirred. He could feel it clawing at his mind, seeping in through the frayed defences that Zola had once exploited. He felt like he was falling, like he was no longer in possession of his own body. Reality started to slip away, melting and reforming into the amber not-light of a three-lobed eye.

The scream sounded again, shrill and deafening, and the world exploded into light. The pressure released and Bucky lashed out, thrashing and swatting the air in front of him until silence fell and he was left staring up at the star-strewn sky. He laid still, arms dropping boneless to the earth, legs splayed and limp as Jell-O. His breath gusted out of him in clouds of mist and his heart thumped like distant bombs. The harsh light stung his eyes but he didn't blink. He couldn't. He needed the light... needed to exorcise any trace of that thing from him... needed...

A face, half in silhouette, passed into the beam of the spotlight. "Sarge? Hey, Sarge...? Bucky! Come on man!" Morita shook him.

With a groan somewhere between horror and nausea, Bucky snapped out of his trance. His left hand snagged a fistful of Jim's jacket.

"Light," he snarled. "Don't let the light go out."

Jim nodded. "I got it. It's fine. You hurt—?"

"Peggy. Find Peggy first."

"She's right there, pal." Jim tried to pass a canteen to Bucky but he waved him off.

"I'm fine," he hissed, finally blinking. "Make sure she's okay." He didn't remember screaming but his throat was hoarse and stung as he breathed. He watched Jim cross the distance to Peggy. She lay a few feet away, curled in on herself and covering her head with her arms. She flinched when Jim touched her shoulder but she accepted the canteen.

Bucky rolled over, still breathing hard and fast. His limbs shook when he tried to put weight on them. Uncertain of whether he could actually stand, he stayed crouched on the ground and tried to stop himself from heaving. Not far from his hand was the gold box, glowing white in the light of the spotlight bolted to the back of the jeep. He kept his eyes away from the stone, despite the nagging voice at the back of his mind urging him to look again.

Peggy's voice drifted up, tremoring. "There's a light box in the back of the jeep. Check the batteries and put the stone inside."

Jim trotted to the jeep and fumbled around for a moment before returning with the box. It looked like a regular storage crate on the outside but when Jim popped it open, Bucky saw the lit panels on the inside.

"Wait, so you knew? You knew this thing would react if removed from light?"

Peggy sat hunched, running a shaking hand through her hair. "Actually, the stone requires someone to gaze into it for a while before being plunged into darkness to release that thing."

A weak stab of anger sizzled on his nerves. "And you didn't bother telling me that?"

"I didn't mention it because I didn't think it would be a problem."

"You didn't think we'd run into a walking dead guy or you didn't think I'd be stupid enough to stare at the rock?"

"I didn't think it would take so long to find the damn thing that we'd be working in the dark. We went over this. Compartmentalization."

There was a tense moment of quiet broken only by the chirp of crickets and the electrical hum of the spotlight. There would have been a time when Bucky would have calmed his nerves with a cigarette, but he'd given those up a long time ago. Instead, he staggered over to Peggy's side and crouched next to her.

"From now on, if you know something about a mission, I know it too, okay?"

Peggy nodded. "Okay."

He squeezed her forearm. "Let's get out of here."

They practically fell into the car and there was no question that Jim was driving. Peggy was dizzy and Bucky was still too close to throwing up, especially since he still had Wilkes' dried blood on his hand. Not to mention the blood dripping down his head from rock he'd landed on.

"I'm starting to think following dad into dentistry would have been a good move," Jim said with a chuckle. Neither of them said anything in reply and the ride back to the motel was silent.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

Bucky didn't properly relax until they were back in Washington and the stone was in a permanently lit display case made of bulletproof glass and protected by the most sophisticated security systems Stark's money could buy. As it turned out, there was a substantial basement beneath C Block and most of it was classified material storage. Howard jokingly referred to it as Lubyanka, after the prison beneath the KGB headquarters in Moscow. The stone was placed in an aisle with all the other 0-8-4s, filed under every name the thing had ever had: The Crystal of Chaos, the Heart of the Windowless Crypt, Mal'kith's Looking Glass, the Lemurian Star, the Shining Trapezohedron. The lights were run on their own circuit, drawing power directly from the grid. There were two backup generators in the event of blackouts and a limited emergency battery. Howard had even had the bottom of the case painted with a luminescent fluid that would absorb the light given off by the bulbs and reemit it if the lights went out. It would give them an hour to get the power back on; plenty of time to bring in extra lights. Beyond firing it into the sun there wasn't much else they could do to ensure that it would never go without light ever again.

Bucky had taken to sleeping with the light on. Well, not sleeping, per se; more tossing and turning than anything else. He wished he could take a vacation like Peggy and disappear off to Paris or London to clear his head. But with twenty-four hours to his McCarthy Committee appearance a break wasn't in the cards.

So he sat in his office with a double shot of whiskey and went over the preparatory notes from Michelle Ozark, SHIELD's general counsel. It all sounded basic enough. He wondered what all the hullaballoo was about.


	5. Future Starts Slow

_Chapter Five: _Future Starts Slow

* * *

The hearing officially began at 10 AM, but by then Bucky had already been in the building for several hours. Ms. Ozark was there, though Bucky got the distinct impression that it was for moral support and nothing more. Most of the aides and staffers were jumpy. It made him nervous.

Then again, he was fresh back from an encounter with something that could dissolve bone and reanimate the dead. So McCarthy didn't seem all that frightening. They were seated in room 357 of the Senate Office Building and he was more intimidated by the room itself than the men who were seated around him. He'd run into Congressman Dirksen before; the guy had been in the SHIELD HUAC hearing. But the senators were strangers to him beyond what he'd read in Ozark's files. Not counting McCarthy there were six senators: Harlan Bushfield for South Dakota, Arthur Vandenburg for Michigan, John McClellan for Arkansas, Harry Cain for Washington, James Kem for Missouri, and Henry Dworshak for Idaho. Ozark had warned him that Cain was a good friend of McCarthy and would likely back him up.

And Dirksen wasn't the only Congressman present. There was Kenneth Keating from New York, Margaret Chase Smith from Maine, Richard Nixon from California and John F. Kennedy from Massachusetts. The rest of the room was packed with lawyers and clerks and investigators. There were even a few accountants. And squeezed into the corner were a few TV cameras.

"I've never seen so many Republicans in one room," Bucky remarked over his shoulder to Ozark. "Are McClellan and Kennedy the only Democrats here?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

Bucky grimaced and a second later McCarthy cleared his throat. The murmur of conversation died down.

"We will have the record show that present are Senator Vandenburg, Senator Dworshak, Senator McClellan, Senator Cain, Senator Kem, Senator Bushfield, and Senator McCarthy, and Congressman Keating of the House Judiciary Subcommittee, Congressman Dirksen of the Strategic Homeland Intervention and Enforcement, Logistics Division subcommittee of the House Un-American Activities Committee, Congressman Smith, Congressman Kennedy, and Congressman Richard Nixon."

McClellan was the next to speak, his words sounding just rehearsed as McCarthy's. "Mr. Chairman, I should report to you that pursuant to the resolution or motion adopted at the meeting of the full committee yesterday, I have appointed as members of the minority of this subcommittee the following Congressman Kennedy and myself."

"Let the record show that yesterday, in the full committee meeting with a quorum present, the motion was made, seconded, and passed that the six Republican members, Senator Bushfield, Senator Vandenburg, Senator McCarthy, Senator Cain, Senator Kem, and Senator Dworshak were confirmed as members of the subcommittee, and also confirmed were the members to be subsequently nominated or appointed by Senator McClellan, which has now been done." McCarthy straightened the papers before him, then turned his eyes on Bucky. "Mr. Barnes, in the matter before the subcommittee, do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

Bucky raised his right hand and laid the other over the black leather cover of the bible Ozark had passed to him earlier. "I do."

"Will you identify your counsel?"

"My counsel is Ms. Michelle Ozark of Washington, SHIELD general counsel."

McCarthy still didn't look like the intimidating monster that he'd been told to expect. In fact, he seemed rather sedate.

"Mr. Barnes, under the rules of the subcommittee you are entitled to have a conference with your lawyer at any time you care to. If something comes up which you think is of such a nature that you want to discuss it in private, we will arrange another room. Your attorney is not allowed to take part in the proceedings in anything other than an advisory capacity. If the attorney thinks that a question is objectionable, she is free to tell you that and to advise you at any time during the proceeding."

"I didn't realise that I was on trial, Senator." Bucky glanced at Ozark. "Mind telling me what I'm being charged with?"

"It's not a trial, Barnes," McClellan replied. "You're just testifying."

McCarthy's general counsel cleared his throat. "Give us your full name, please, Mr. Barnes."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

"Now, look here, Mr. Barnes. I'm not trying to judge you. I'm concerned simply because men like you are generally bad security risks. I understand that in your case, personally, the Russians would have nothing to blackmail you with. You've made no secret of your affliction. But I also understand that there is a certain, I suppose you could say co-dependence among people like you. You tend to hire others like you—"

"That's because no one else will, Mr. Chairman. People like me need to work too."

McCarthy was looking restless. Throughout Bucky's testimony he'd interrupted, trying to pry names from him. It was like the Board of Officers hearing all over again, but with higher profile guests. He'd been surprisingly civil. Bucky was almost certain that the rumours of Joe's temper were greatly exaggerated. But the cracks were widening and his patience was wearing thin.

"I understand that, Barnes. I do. But we have very good reasons to worry about security. I don't think any of us want Soviet bombs dropping on our families because someone had something to hide."

Bucky could feel his own temper starting to simmer. "Maybe if men like me didn't have to hide their proclivities we wouldn't have this problem."

The weaselly general counsel spoke up again. "This committee's function is not to critique societal norms, Mr. Barnes. Right now we are concerned with whether you have recruited anyone like yourself to positions within SHIELD."

"I don't have to tell you that."

"May I remind you that you are under oath."

"And may I remind you that I have the right to remain silent."

McCarthy was starting to look decidedly put out. "This is a security issue. The men and women working for SHIELD handle highly classified material and information. If any of them are vulnerable to blackmail then that poses a threat." He paused, a malicious gleam coming into his eyes. "What about the young man you met up with in an alley near your apartment last week? Liam Murphy, I believe. You offered him a job, didn't you?"

Bucky sighed. "I gave him a number to call. He'll take the entrance exams like anyone else."

"Are you in the habit of giving employment opportunities to the men you have sex with?" the counsel asked with a sneer.

"I was in the alley to break up a fight. They guy was getting the beating of his life and I stepped in to stop it."

"Do you spend a lot of time breaking up fights?"

"Used to," Bucky replied, biting his lip.

The lawyer looked triumphant. "Would it be fair to say that you offered Murphy a job because he reminded you of Captain Rogers?"

Bucky's jaw clenched. He could definitely feel his anger boiling. "Are you questioning my motives for offering an employment opportunity? Because I wouldn't mind questioning _your _motives for denying it."

"We ask the questions here, Mr. Barnes."

"Deciding that certain groups of people are weak or inferior is an ugly road, Senator. I've seen where it leads."

"I don't need a lecture on this committee's methods," McCarthy snarled.

"Mr. Chairman, Barnes makes a valid point."

Bucky and McCarthy both turned to the source of the remark—Congressman Kennedy.

"Anyone is liable to blackmail. We all have our secrets and we all have our reasons for keeping them. If this committee's focus is going to be the investigation of those most vulnerable to blackmail we should be starting with Senators, not homosexuals."

There was a wave of hesitant laughter. McCarthy only scowled more, eyes fixed on Kennedy as if he were imagining wringing his neck.

"We can compel you to give us the names we're after."

"I spent time in a Nazi death camp, Senator. Try me."

Something appeared to snap behind McCarthy's eyes. He lifted a fistful of papers and waved them in the air like an accusation. "By continuing to employ homosexuals in your agency, you and Mr. Stark are knowingly putting this country at risk and, I would argue, colluding with communists! Your actions put at risk everything that Captain America died for—"

"Steve did not die for secret Senate committees, red baiting, witch-hunts, and paranoia," Bucky snapped. "You may have forgotten, Senator, but Steve Rogers grew up a sickly, liberal artist in a neighbourhood full of immigrants, socialists, and queers. He would _not _have supported _anything _you bastards do—"

"Barnes..."

"You want to know what Captain America died for? He died so that this country would never have to know the kind of tyranny that Germany had been trampled under. He died so that we wouldn't become a fascist dictatorship. He died for liberty. Captain America was not just some symbol you can co-opt for your own purposes; he was a human being—"

"Mr. Barnes—" McClellan tried to cut in, but Bucky's temper was in full swing.

"No. You wanted me to talk, so you can shut up and listen."

"Sit down, Barnes. Let the real men talk," McCarthy spat.

Bucky turned his glare on the Chairman. "Oh, I'm sorry Senator. I didn't know there _were_ any men here. Could you point them out—"

"That's enough, Mr. Barnes." Cain spoke up for the first time, predictably in defence of McCarthy. Bucky just spoke louder.

"If you were a real man you would have been on the front lines with the rest of us, fighting for your country. But you weren't. You were too busy breaking your ankle in a line-crossing ceremony. Isn't that right, Tail-Gunner Joe?" Bucky hadn't seen rage like McCarthy's on a face since the last time he'd seen the Red Skull. He smiled, and he knew it was a malicious smile. "You're not the only one who can dig up dirt, Senator."

There was a long silence and Bucky refused to be the one to break eye contact first. He wasn't going to give an inch. Howard had wanted a wolf and that was exactly what he was going to get.

"As I see it, Barnes, you have two options. You can give me the names and I can have them all quietly dismissed, or I can send in a loyalty board."

"The Wisconsin Inquisition? Excuse me if I don't quake in my boots."

"By God, Barnes, I will make it my mission to tear SHIELD apart. I will find every dirty secret you people have ever buried. None of you will work a respectable job in this country ever again. I will blacklist Stark and all his holdings, I will have Carter deported, and I will see you shipped back to that piss-hole neighbourhood you crawled out of." McCarthy's face was turning a bright, angry red. He was half out of his seat, hands in fists on the table. "And if we're discussing our respective service to our country, allow me to remind you that I _volunteered_ for the Marine Corps. If memory serves, you were _drafted_ into the Army."

Bucky could feel his hackles up, the clench of rage in his chest. If there hadn't have been desks between them, he might have punched McCarthy in his smug face.

"What would your beloved Captain Rogers say to that, hmm? I hear you never told him. I like to think that he'd be ashamed. All that time he spent desperate to sign up and you wait until the Army calls _you_."

Hot fury turned to cold steel in a second. There were some lines you just don't cross, and McCarthy had just crossed one. Bucky's reply was spoken with a snarl.

"With all due respect, Senator, get fucked!"

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

The hubbub of conversation was interrupted by the sharp pinging of a spoon against glass.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to kick off the night with a toast."

The guests fell quiet as Howard stepped onto the dais, the bay windows behind him offering a stately view of Long Island Sound. Dressed to the nines he looked like Jay Gatsby, commanding the crowd of revellers with a cocktail in his hand. Bucky felt a little like Nick Caraway. He didn't know any of the people here beyond their public personas. They were America's best and brightest—or, more accurately, America's young and wealthy. All the scions of the rich were here and not a blue collar in sight. It still felt strange to be rubbing shoulders with Rockefellers and DuPonts and Kennedys. For most of his life he'd been working class. A bottle of champagne would have been an unthinkable luxury. Now here he was surrounded by women wearing diamonds and pearls and men in silk ties and tailored suits. The scents of champagne and scotch mixed with perfume and Cuban cigars. He wondered if he would ever stop feeling out of place.

"I'd like you all to raise your glasses to a good friend of mine. He made my year yesterday when, in the middle of a Senate subcommittee hearing, he told the Senator from Wisconsin to—and, I quote—get fucked." Howard smirked as the party-goers laughed and he raised his glass. "To James Barnes; the only man I know who isn't afraid of the big, bad McCarthy. May all Joe's stomach ulcers have your name on them."

Bucky smiled, bowing his head and pretending to appreciate the attention. He knew that a fair few of the people at the party were actually fond of McCarthy, or at least supported his ideas, but like all the other wealthy well-to-dos, they knew to always toe the line with your host. Even if you derided him later, behind closed doors. So he took the applause and shouts of 'here, here' with a grain of salt.

The band struck up again, everyone returning to their conversations, and Howard made a beeline straight for Bucky, Dugan at his side.

"There, you're the hero of the hour."

"Am I really?" Bucky asked, gulping down champagne. "How many of these people would vote for McCarthy if he ran for President?"

"Only the idiots," Dugan replied.

Through the crowd, two young men approached. One darker and slimmer, the other moderately attractive, with the kind of natural social grace and charming smile that could easily land him in the White House. Both were carrying cocktails and the younger of the two had a girl on each arm. Bucky wondered if attending this party would compromise the elder's position on the Senate subcommittee.

"Barnes," John Kennedy began. "You're a television sensation."

Bucky plastered a smile on his face. "I can imagine. Sorry about my language in there, Mr. Kennedy—heat of the moment."

Kennedy waved him off. "Don't sweat it. Joe has that effect on everyone." He pulled the younger man forward. "I suppose I should introduce my brother. Mr. Barnes, Robert Kennedy. Rob, you know James Barnes."

Robert held out his hand with a wide, genuine smile. "It's an honour to meet you, Mr. Barnes." Bucky couldn't help but notice that he behaved as if the women on his arm didn't even exist.

"The honour's all mine." He knew that Howard and Peggy needed him to play the political game right now. SHIELD's future depended on good impressions with the right people, and if that meant some fake smiles, insincere flattery, handshakes, waves, and kissing of babies then so be it. He felt like a fraud, but Howard had assured him that ninety percent of politics was fraud.

He'd also said that Bucky could charm the pants off a nun if he set his mind to it, and if he turned that charm on the right people he could get a lot done in this town. He'd officially graduated from blowing guys in back alleys to pay for Steve's meds to smiling at crooked politicians to get them to throw a few words or a few dollars SHIELD's way. _Once a whore, always a whore, huh Barnes?_

John steered Bucky aside as Howard, Dugan and Robert struck up a passionate discussion about legal limits on intelligence agencies.

"You know, James, I think you could go a long way in Washington. I do. A lot of those Senators and Congressmen who throw slurs at you will change their tune if they think you've got a shot at office. If you can play the game, you'll find that politics can cover a multitude of sins."

Bucky considered Kennedy. He could see why the ladies fell all over the guy. What he lacked in stunning looks he made up for in charm. If Bucky was charming pants off nuns, Kennedy could have bagged himself the pope's pants, easy.

"You think people would vote for a queer?"

"Why not? They've voted in adulterers, swindlers, liars, and cheats. Why not an honest man who just happens to have some unusual habits?" The look in his eyes was hard to read, but he was studying Bucky closely. "You just need to keep your head. You had Joe on the defensive; now you need to keep him there."

Bucky finished his champagne. "Why the free advice?"

"We Democrats need to stick together."

"Who says I'm a Democrat?"

Kennedy smiled, slow and indulgent, and finished his drink. "You're sure as hell not a Republican, and that's good enough for me." He didn't give Bucky the chance to argue, disappearing into the gilded crowd as smoothly as he'd emerged. Bucky tried not to be _too _charmed. He looked down into his empty glass and smiled.

"As far as I know, Mr. Kennedy is only interested in women, James. I wouldn't get my hopes up if I were you."

Bucky scoffed. "And where have you been?"

Peggy moved into his field of vision, a swirl of azure and sparkling gemstones with a teasing glint in her eye. "I've been chatting with Robert and Martha Pierce. They've been funding the push to have the President rein in McCarthy and HUAC." Peggy tossed her hair back over her shoulder. "Robert informs me that you and Steve saved his life. The 101st Airborne ring any bells?"

"A few." He gestured toward a couple, both blonde and well-dressed, with a young boy tagging along behind. "The kid must be bored out of his mind."

"That's their son, Alex. And he's not nearly as bored as you'd think. He's a good little politician in the making."

Bucky glanced again at the young boy. His blond hair and perfectly tailored grey suit were an absolute mirror image of his father's. His manners were impeccable and just about everyone in the Pierces' circle fussed over him. He seemed to be enjoying the attention. _That kid'll be in the Senate before you know it._

He returned his eyes to Peggy, looking her up and down. The last time he'd seen her all dressed up had been in that bar in London in '43 and his memories of that week were fuzzy and disjointed. Glitz and glam weren't really her thing, so it was surprising to see her at the party at all.

"You look nice," he remarked. Her hair was tied up, sparkling stones at her throat. The cobalt cocktail dress clung to her curves in a way that he imagined would be provocative if he was a regular gent. She looked stunning, and the view might not have got him hot under the collar, but he knew beautiful when he saw it.

"I'm glad my effort hasn't gone completely unnoticed."

"I mean it. You look beautiful."

Peggy smiled, slightly sheepish. "And you look rather dashing, yourself. Did Stark make you wear that?"

Bucky feigned outrage. "Hey, come on now. I'm not a complete slob. Howard doesn't have to make me dress up for a party."

She smiled and he didn't know whether it was the drink or whether the distraction and tension she'd operated under for the last three years had finally evaporated. But whatever it was, she was relaxed and looked genuinely happy.

He held out his hand. "Care to dance?"

She cast a mock conspiratorial look around. "Goodness, Barnes. People will talk." With a flourish, she took his hand. "People will think you're a heterosexual."

He was laughing, pulling her close like they were sharing a secret. "You ought to be careful bandying that word around, Agent Carter. That's how rumours start."

They were halfway to the dance floor, snickering, when Howard hooked his hand around Bucky's bicep. "Oh, Agent Barnes?"

"Yes, Howard?"

"Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Peggy rolled her eyes. "Talking shop already, Stark?"

"No, actually. Something of personal interest."

Bucky straightened his hair. Man, Peggy was cursed. Was she _ever _going to get that dance? "Is it important?"

Howard just smirked and pulled him back in the direction of the bar. Bucky cast an apologetic look Peggy's way.

"Rain check?" he asked, and immediately regretted it. A flicker of tired sadness passed through her eyes and a weak stab of grief bit at him. Two years and three months and they were both still reliving that moment in the radio room.

He followed Howard through the crowd. "This better be good."

"Well, first things first; you ought to know what Jack Kennedy said to me." Howard dragged him up to the bar, ordering a couple of Manhattans. "He likes you. I don't know what you did, but he likes you."

"That's it? That's what you dragged me over here to say?"

"Ha! As if." Howard was in full scheming mode. He usually looked like this when he was in his lab or in the meeting room at HQ. "He told me—all confidential, of course—that were he to run for President, he'd like to have you on the ticket."

Bucky stared at him for a solid ten seconds. He honestly didn't know whether to believe him or not. "He wants me for his Vice President?"

"Yeah."

"Are you kidding with me right now?"

"No."

"I've never held political office. How am I supposed to run for VP?"

"I don't think he cares how you do it," Howard said, sipping at his drink. "And you know, theoretically, anyone is supposed to be able to run for office in this country."

"Theoretically," Bucky emphasized.

"Yeah, yeah. I know. You usually run for the Senate or the House first. But you, my friend, have made quite a splash in those hearings. I think you've proven yourself. You'll have a hell of a voter base on the left."

Bucky took his drink, downed half of it, and looked Howard in the eye. "You honestly think that America will vote a queer into office just 'cause he's riding on a Kennedy's coattails?"

Howard looked at him like he was an idiot. He was getting used to that look. "I said nothing about coattails, Barnes. Hell, you could run for President right now. I don't think you'd win, but as VP? I don't think you realise what you've started. The Senate may not like you—McCarthy outright hates your guts—but there are a lot of people out there who are speaking up in your defence."

Bucky sighed. "Howard, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but as we speak there are loyalty boards interrogating State Department employees about their sex lives. There are more homosexuals being fired than there are communists. America is not going to vote for a fairy."

Howard looked supremely disappointed. He put down his drink and slumped onto a stool. "Will you at least think about it? I really think you have it in you."

He sighed. "I'll think about it. But no promises." He swirled the liquid in his glass. "Now, what was the other thing you were so eager to tell me?"

Howard's resigned expression instantly morphed into a smirk. He nodded his head in the direction of the other end of the bar. "You see that guy by the bar? Light hair, green eyes?"

Bucky looked over Howard's shoulder, considering the man in question. He was tall, solid, with a self-assured bearing. His tux was perfectly tailored, his hair gelled, his shoes shined. When he shifted his stance, the muscles in his back moved under the black fabric. "Well built... nice gams." _Very nice gams_. "What about him?"

Stark flashed a triumphant grin. "If you're interested, I happen to know he swings your way."

"And how do you know that?" He couldn't help being sceptical.

"I know everything," Howard countered with a touch of his usual narcissism. "But in this case it helps that he's been eyeing you like a choice steak all night. So either he's a queer or he's a cannibal. Take your pick."

Bucky snorted and looked again at the man. He _was_ pretty good looking. His thighs strained a little at the seams of his pants; like all good suits, it was perfectly tailored until you moved. It was his hands, though, that caught Bucky's attention. Unlike most of the men at the party, this guy had big, rough hands. Hands that had seen a day's work. His mind filled with images of those hands against his skin, calloused and firm on the small of his back or the insides of his thighs. He had thick fingers, too, and... _Jesus, Barnes, ease up. Don't embarrass yourself. _It had been far too long.

"He _could _be a cannibal, you know. In the last couple of days I've seen stranger things." Bucky's eyes drifted down to the guy's ass and he mentally scolded himself. _Damn it, what has gotten into you? Get a hold of yourself._

"He's not a cannibal," Howard replied. "Now go get him. Get laid for once."

"If he is, it's on you."

Bucky slipped past Howard, patting his shoulder and making his way down the bar and trying to think up something to say. He hadn't had so much as a one-night-stand since '42 and he was woefully out of practice. So instead of trying to say anything witty, he just slipped into the bar stool next to Green-Eyes and offered his hand.

"James Barnes. I don't believe we've been introduced."

Green-Eyes turned to him and Bucky couldn't help but immediately love that smile. When he took the offered hand, his grip was just as firm as Bucky had imagined.

"We haven't... I'm Charles Bannerman."

His voice was a delightful baritone which, along with that perfectly schooled English accent, lent him an air of command. The quick flick of his eyes up and down Bucky's body was properly brief, but Bucky didn't miss it. He resisted the urge to stretch himself out in invitation. This wasn't some seedy bar in Greenwich Village; this was a Stark Manor soiree with the rich and important. No need to look like a harlot.

"What brings you across the pond, Mr. Bannerman?"

"Business. Nothing too interesting, I'm afraid." He turned so he was fully facing Bucky. "Director Hillenkoetter invited me along and I couldn't exactly say no to a party at Stark Manor."

Bucky leaned forward. "You know Hillenkoetter?"

"Old friends." Charles finished what looked like a scotch. "Try not to hold it against me. I know your agency and the CIA don't particularly get along."

Bucky shrugged. "They're amateurs. What can I say?"

"Funny. That's exactly what Roscoe said about SHIELD."

He smiled, glancing up at Charles through lowered lids. "What do _you_ think?"

An indecipherable something passed over Charles' face. "I don't believe I've seen enough of SHIELD's inner workings to make a proper comparison." There was a glint in his eye and he looked down again at Bucky's body.

_Not bad. Nice transition to innuendo. Very smooth._

"I'm sure I could give you a guided tour." He kept his tone neutral but let his hunger show in his eyes. "In depth, if you like."

Charles considered him; the barest hint of a smirk playing over his lips. "You have somewhere here?"

Bucky shrugged. "Not an official office, but it's private enough." He finished his drink and rose from the stool. "I can show you right now, if you like."

Charles grinned and tipped back the last of his scotch. Bucky watched his Adam's apple bob and imagined running his tongue over it. The tumbler clinked on the bar and Charles stood up.

"Lead on, Mr. Barnes."

"Bucky," he corrected. "Mr. Barnes is what the Senators call me."

Charles followed him down the narrow hall out of the ballroom, close enough that their shoulders brushed. "Bucky..." he tested the nickname on his tongue like it was wine.

They managed to avoid any fellow partygoers as Bucky led Charles down the warren-like corridors of Stark's mansion and toward the guest room he was staying in. His heart was thrumming as they neared it; his breathing deepening when Charles ran a sly hand down his back and stopped teasingly short of his rear. He kept finding his eyes drawn down to Charles' hips as they walked. He envisioned them pumping between his thighs and he felt himself stir in his pants.

He couldn't shake the nagging little thought at the back of his mind; the feeling that he was cheating. He and Steve had never had the chance to be together like this, but he knew that if Steve had lived, they would both have been staying in this room. It felt wrong to be here, doing this, with someone else, as illogical as that was.

_You have to get over him sometime. You may as well start now._

They reached the door of the guest room and as Bucky stuck the key in the lock, Charles pressed himself against his back. Those rough hands were on his waist, fingertips pressing into his flesh, his lips on Bucky's neck. Bucky's breath left him in a stuttered whisper of a groan and he felt himself twitch, his pants becoming increasingly uncomfortable. He was powerless to prevent his hips from pressing back against Charles' and he shuddered when he felt the hard ridge. It had been so very long and his body was practically screaming for it. The lock turned, the door opened, and they tumbled over the threshold.

The moment the door was closed, Charles moved in front of Bucky, backing him against the wood panel wall. His mouth was on Bucky's throat in a second, sucking at the join of neck and shoulder and nipping at the soft spot between ear and jaw. A hand settled on the small of Bucky's back as he arched into the other man's body.

There was part of him that wanted to slow down but he told it to take a hike. He was painfully hard and the powerful thigh pushing between his own promised relief. Bucky groaned and allowed his legs to be parted, reaching between them to undo the buttons of Charles' tux. Charles' hands grabbed handfuls of his ass and squeezed and Bucky's head hit the wall, a truly obscene noise escaping his throat. The throb in his groin was unbearable.

"I've got to get out of this suit," he said, breathless.

Charles was swift in obliging him. Despite their haste, he didn't damage so much as a single button; deftly popping each free of the buttonhole. Bucky was somewhat more clumsy.

He was naked when his back hit the bed, hands finding purchase on Charles' own bare flesh. He moaned into Charles' mouth when their hips ground together and pleasure shot through his neglected erection. The feeling of skin on skin was intoxicating.

But the nagging doubt returned as Charles trailed kisses down his chest and stomach. Palms massaged his thighs and a warm, soft mouth closed around his cock, but all Bucky could focus on was the sandy blond hair working free of the brylcreem slick. For a moment it looked as if Steve were the one swallowing him; as if Steve were the one gently fondling his balls. And oh, how he'd fantasized about _that. _Tonight, though, thoughts of Steve made him feel like a whore.

So as Charles was slipping a lubricated finger up inside him—and lord, those thick fingers _were _satisfying—Bucky closed his eyes. He imagined it was Steve's hands on him, Steve's fingers curling inside and brushing the spot that made his legs tremble and his back arch like a bow. He imagined it was Steve kissing his way back up his torso, sucking welts into his neck while his pulse pounded in his groin. He imagined it was Steve's knees pushing his thighs apart, Steve's lips kissing him breathless, Steve sliding achingly slow into him. It was Steve's hips pumping against his, Steve pushing and pulling inside him, prodding and bumping and brushing all the spots that made his toes curl and stopped his breath. It was Steve pressing him down into the mattress, stretching his open, and filling the room with the slapping of skin on skin and the animal sounds he drew from Bucky's throat.

His eyes were still closed when he came, a calloused hand milking his cock and teeth nibbling his earlobe. He shook, jerking his hips up into Charles' thrusts and moaned; streaks of cum painted his abdomen. In his mind he could hear Steve's voice, low and rough with lust.

_I love you, Buck._

Charles came with a growl and a warm gush. Through his spasms, his thrusts never faltered, though they now felt wet and sloppy. When he did pull out, Bucky felt fluid spill out after him.

Fatigue settled into his bones, his body warm and sated. He was dimly aware of Charles wiping them both down with a warm cloth before climbing back into the bed. He fell asleep with Charles lips against the back of his neck and his arm curled around his torso, and for a brief moment he felt his guilt drift away. Another moment and sleep found him.


	6. A View to a Kill

_Chapter Six: _A View to a Kill

* * *

**August 1947, Constanta, Romania**

"You do know I've never been here before, right?"

Howard adjusted his sunglasses, using the movement as a cover to survey the area. Their quarry was due to cross the street from the barber shop—actually a front for a Zodiac cell—in a minute or two. It would then be Howard and Bucky's job to follow him to wherever he and his bosses were holding their meetings and bug the place. The government was dragging its ass about convicting those few Zodiac agents SHIELD had been able to capture, citing lack of evidence. So in a fit of temper, Howard had decided to _get _himself more evidence. Truman had signed off on electronic surveillance and within twenty-four hours Stark had dragged Bucky halfway across the world.

"Your mother was Romanian, right?"

"Yeah. And her family moved to America when she was ten. She didn't exactly see it as the motherland."

"You never visited?"

Bucky sighed. "When you first met me, did I look like the kind of guy who could afford to travel?"

Howard shrugged. "To be honest, I have no idea how much it costs regular folks to travel. I don't even know how much it costs to fuel my own planes." He shrugged and Bucky stared at him, caught between incredulity and disappointment.

"I hope you pay your accountants _real _well, Stark."

Howard puffed himself up. "I do. Theo and J.J. live in mansions of their own and Janine would too if she didn't spend it all on horses."

"You know what? She looks after your money; she deserves to spend hers on whatever the hell she pleases."

"What? You're saying I'm too reckless with my money?" Stark asked with a frown.

"I'm just saying that I don't think you appreciate it."

"And you do?"

Bucky removed his sunglasses, leaning his elbows on the cafe table. "Ma's family came to America with nothing. And I mean _nothing_. The clothes on their backs and one bag for six people."

"Your folks weren't exactly destitute, Barnes. I've seen the house you were living in."

"That was dad. First generation Anglo-American with a decent inheritance. And it's easy to get a job when you have an English accent and your grandfather went to Eton."

Howard scoffed at Eton but schooled his expression back to neutral when Bucky scowled at him.

"If Ma had stayed here, my entire family woulda been rounded up, shot, and tossed in a mass grave 200 miles that way." He hooked his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of Iasi. "So yes, I appreciate where I am now."

"You're not a Jew, Barnes. They wouldn't have shot you."

"It's passed down the maternal line. My father may have been too much of a Protestant to let anyone snip a bit of me off, but in any way that matters, I'm a Jew." Bucky sipped his coffee. "Enough of one to be gassed, in any case."

Howard didn't appear to know what to say to that, so he returned to his own coffee and the newspaper he'd been pretending to read when they'd started this conversation. Then he frowned into the dark liquid in his cup. "So that's why McCarthy hated you."

"Nah. Joe doesn't hate me because I'm a Jew. He hates me because I'm a homo."

Bucky turned his attention to the coffee pot and the reflection on its surface. He could see the street, the shops across from the cafe, the intersection, and the portly little man hurrying out of the barber shop.

"Hey, Stark. We're movin'."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

Following their Zodiac friend turned into a three hour odyssey through the streets of Constanta. He obviously wasn't in a hurry to meet his bosses. Or he was aware of the possibility of being followed and was trying to bore his tails to death. Luckily Bucky had more patience than Howard.

They spent another hour sitting outside a mouldy, crumbling pre-Soviet factory, waiting for the men inside to finish their poker game and leave. Howard was getting twitchy but Bucky lay motionless on the roof across the street, binoculars in front of his eyes like he was waiting for a shot. He'd waited in worse conditions.

The men filed out shortly after sunset, two of them staggering drunk, another well on his way. The oldest of them was sober and stiff, barking in Russian at the others, who fell into line and shuffled into the two black cars waiting on the street. Once the cars had pulled away and disappeared into the night Bucky tapped Howard's shoulder.

"We're in business."

"Finally," Howard grumbled, shifting from where he was slumped against the concrete. He rolled his neck and groaned. "How do you do this?"

"By not being a whiny rich boy. Let's go."

Bucky led the endlessly grousing Stark down the musty stairwell and out onto the street. A quick check of the factory revealed that it was, in fact, empty. The table was still there, but whatever cards and chips the men had played their game with had left in someone's bag. Only empty bottles remained. The whole space reeked of vodka.

Footsteps echoed off the unfurnished concrete and the metal girders overhead. The snap of pigeons' wings was like artillery fire.

"Well." Howard surveyed the wreck. "At least the bugs won't have any trouble picking things up. The acoustics should be pretty decent." He dropped his satchel down on the poker table and withdrew a collection of electronic equipment. There were two wiretap kits and an army of bugs that were smaller than Bucky's pinkie fingernail.

Bucky grabbed the wiretaps. "Phone's upstairs, I imagine."

Howard nodded. "Find two phones that look like they've been used the most. Tap them and get back down here and we'll get these boys set up." He patted a pair of small cameras.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

All in all, it took less time to bug the factory from top to bottom than it had for the mobsters and Zodiac men to play their poker game. When Bucky and Howard left, the place looked exactly like it had before. The bugs were invisible, hidden in corners and underneath cinderblocks. The cameras were concealed in wall cracks; the wiretaps indistinguishable from all the other cords and wires in the phones. Howard activated the system and then they left.

The hotel room they were staying in was muggy and choking when they got back. The night had done nothing to cool it down. Bucky's shirt clung to his back and he could feel sweat dripping through his hair. There was no hope of a shower, either. The place was an old tenement and the showers in the hall didn't work. Even his shitty apartment in Brooklyn had been better than this.

"Feeling at home, Barnes?"

Bucky scowled, peeling off his shirt and undershirt, running them under the sink and hanging them in the window. "My place wasn't this bad. And if _I _feel like I'm slumming, you must be going outta your mind." He poured a jug full of cold water over his head. "Missing martinis yet?"

Howard pulled a face, stripping down to his skivvies and snatching the jug from Bucky's hand. "Martinis I can do without. Basic hygiene, not so much." A contented animal noise left him as he doused himself with cold, clean water. "What is with this heat? Isn't this supposed to be grey, rainy Eastern Europe?"

"You're thinking of Wales."

"I thought you said you didn't travel?"

"Monty was always on about grey, rainy South Wales." Bucky pulled down his pants, hanging them next to his shirts, and scrubbed himself down with a wet cloth. It wasn't nearly as good as a shower but it was better than nothing. He didn't bother towelling himself off before dropping onto the creaky mattress. Anything to cool down. It was two in the morning and he was exhausted.

He kept hoping that Howard would find something to do other than talk. He'd been going non-stop since that morning and Bucky found himself longing for an off button. In the hope that if he didn't get any responses he'd lay off, Bucky closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

Even if it hadn't have been for Howard talking, Bucky wouldn't have been able to nod off. The air felt heavy over his chest, like he was drowning in warm water. All he could do was lie there and sweat. _And _listen to Howard.

He was going to lose his mind. He knew it.

Midway through a dissertation on palladium cold fusion, Howard stopped. "Was that why you were so antsy about my spending habits?"

_Talk about a non sequitur. _Bucky's brows furrowed in confusion. "What?"

"You're Jewish..."

There was a long pause and Bucky snorted. "Are you seriously asking me if I'm fiscally responsible because I'm Jewish?"

"It was an observation."

"It was a question," Bucky said. "And I'm cranky about your spending habits because I wasn't a spoiled brat as a child. Dropping a few million dollars on frivolous spending is not my idea of a good time."

"It's called cheap."

"It's called frugal."

Bucky could almost feel Howard rolling his eyes. Maybe this was why Peggy hadn't wanted to go on this mission with him. The silence lasted an impressive thirty seconds before Howard started up again.

"What exactly would be the use of having all th—"

Bucky hucked his soggy sock across the dark room and heard it hit the wall with a splat. There was a pause.

"Really?"

"For the love of God, Howard, just shut up." It was the third time that day that he'd told Howard to put a lid on it. Bucky eased the other sock off in silence, just in case he needed it. It cooled him off, at least.

"I'm starting to want you to make me."

Bucky frowned and glanced over, just able to make out Stark's grin in the darkness. He was lying on the other bed, hair still wet and wearing nothing more than the soaked underwear he'd had on when he'd doused himself. Even in the dark it didn't leave much to the imagination. Hell, Bucky wasn't going to complain. It wasn't as if Stark was hard to look at. Problem was, he knew it.

"Are you propositioning me?"

Howard chuckled. "I'm just saying... You want me to shut up; I want you to shut me up."

He stared at Howard, eyebrows heading for his hairline. "Aren't you supposed to be my boss?"

"We're supposed to be equals." Howard sighed. "The three founders, Stark, Carter and Barnes..."

Bucky remained silent. What in the hell was he supposed to say? Here he was, in a muggy Romanian boarding house with the Director of SHIELD—who he'd believed was a good little heterosexual—picking up a mission originally assigned to three level two agents who were missing—presumed dead—and he was being hit on. He was too busy being confused to be flattered.

When he continued to say nothing, Howard let out a breath, sounding disappointed. "Well, it was worth a shot. Anyway, as I was saying, Palladium isn't ideal as a host metal but it's the best we've got. Ideally I'd need an isotope of vibranium—"

"Fuck," Bucky growled and rolled from his bed. There was no way he was going to listen to Stark talk about technical details all night. Time to call his bluff.

He crossed the room with purpose. Howard trailed off as he climbed onto his bed and Bucky awaited the inevitable loss of nerve. But Howard just watched him, lips slightly parted, a look of pleasant surprise on his face. Bucky grabbed his shoulder and flipped him onto his stomach, straddling his hips and leaning down to hiss in his ear.

"Shut up, Stark."

Howard shivered. "Make me."

Well damn. He wasn't bluffing after all. Bucky bit down on the soft spot where Howard's neck joined his shoulder, which drew a breathy cry. Howard's ass pressed up into Bucky's hips and Bucky ground down against him, arching his back to force him into the squeaking mattress. All that separated them was the thin material of their underwear and Bucky could feel himself swelling and stiffening. _Shit, are you seriously about to fuck Howard Stark?_

The ridge of his erection slotted between the cheeks of Howard's ass and Stark hummed a contented noise.

"Not chickening out, are we?" Bucky asked, hooking his thumb in the waistband of Howard's skivvies and pulling them slowly down.

"Not on your life," Howard gasped, raising his hips just enough to ease the removal of the garment. Bucky reached around and found him hard as a rock.

"Jesus, you're serious." He was breathing hard, nose rested against Howard's spine. "I don't have anything..."

"Drawer. Coconut oil."

"Why the fuck do you have coconut oil?"

"It's great for tanning."

Bucky found the little bottle with a blind grope and returned to rutting against Howard's ass. "Tanning? On a mission?"

"Are you gonna fuck me or what?"

Bucky pulled Howard's underwear the rest of the way off and shoved two freshly oiled fingers up his ass. Howard's breath left him and there was, at last, blessed silence. At least until Bucky curled the digits and pressed down. The moan that earned him was positively obscene.

"Fuck. Get on with it, Barnes."

Bucky growled, adding a third finger and working him open briefly before withdrawing them and yanking down his underwear. He was dripping and twitched in his hand when he spread the oil over himself. He shoved Howard's thighs apart with his knees and pulled his hips up off the bed—the only warning before he thrust in.

Howard gave a choked-off groan and fell quiet; the only sound his heaving breaths. Bucky was buried to the hilt and he could feel Howard's muscles spasming around him. He remained still, letting his adjust and biting softly at the back of his neck.

He waited until the vice grip loosened before beginning to move. Howard's voice returned, the slap of skin interrupted by grunts and cries. Bucky rocked back and forth, starting slow—if not gentle—and working up to the head-to-root thrusts that had Howard moaning like a whore. He kept Howard pinned to the sheets by his wrists with one hand, stroking him with the other. His mouth remained at Howard's neck, sucking welts into his skin as he drove in and out of him.

Neither of them lasted very long, but Bucky would still consider it one of the better nights of his life. Stark was the most enthusiastic fuck he'd ever had. He met every thrust with vigour, getting tighter and tighter until he came, going taut as a bowstring and clenching around Bucky's cock. He was almost silent, gasping when Bucky brushed his prostate, but otherwise quiet as he spilled on the sheets. Bucky finished with his face buried in Howard's shoulder, thrusting balls-deep one more time. The peak of his orgasm came sharp and sudden and overwhelming and he couldn't stop his whimpered moan as he emptied in spurts into Howard.

Howard shuddered at the desperate sound. "Fuck, Barnes..."

Bucky slid in and out of him a few more times, riding out the aftershocks and slowing his breathing. When he pulled out and collapsed on the bed Howard gave a satisfied groan.

"Remind me to annoy you more often."

"Since when are you queer?"

Howard shrugged. "I'm not. I'm just not picky."

Bucky rolled out of the bed, his legs like jelly, and grabbed one of the wet cloths from earlier, wiping himself off before tossing it to Howard and collapsing into this own bed.

"Good night, Stark."

Howard chuckled, exhausted. "Night, Barnes."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

When Howard woke it was still dark. The streets below the window were quiet. A soft breeze was filtering through the room, stirring the gauzy old curtains. He almost rolled over and went back to sleep, but a prickle went up and down his spine. Something was wrong.

He glanced over at Bucky but found the bed empty. The sheets were still tangled and his clothes were where they'd been dropped in the previous night's haste. The bag with his clean clothes hadn't been touched either. It was as if he'd simply vanished.

The room was too quiet; too still. It wasn't the quiet of an empty room, but that of someone who was actively _trying_ to be quiet. There was a shift in the air and Howard saw movement in the space beyond the bedroom shutters. He rolled from the bed and reached for the gun he'd stashed underneath. The pop of two silenced shots broke the quiet and the pillows on both beds burst into plumes of feathers. The shutters parted and Howard came up, finger on the trigger.

A heavy boot kicked the pistol from his hands. He rolled out of the way of another pop which cracked the floorboards behind where he'd been crouched. He scrambled to retrieve the gun and had to kick they guy to buy time. In the dark it was almost impossible to differentiate between the matte black of the firearm and the wood floor. He was groping blindly when a gloved hand pulled him back by his hair.

He hit the floor hard, his head making a hollow sound on the wood. When he sat up, trying to lash out, he found the barrel of a Tokarev staring him in the eye.

_Fuck._

There was a burst of movement and Barnes melted out of the darkness, looping a garrotte around the intruder's neck, hauling him to the side and onto his knees. The gloved man gurgled and thrashed, dropping his gun and pawing in vain at his throat. Barnes was unyielding, arms bulging as the wire started to cut into the man's neck. In less than a minute, the man was in a crumpled heap on the floor and Bucky was going through his pockets.

"Shit. KGB." Bucky glanced around, his naked flesh glowing in the moonlight like a ghost. Howard was still sprawled where he'd been thrown; staring at Bucky's bloodied hands as he returned the KGB work pass to the man's pocket. He couldn't sort out whether he was horrified or aroused by the ease with which Barnes had dispatched their would-be murderer. He was too busy reliving the dark tunnel of the Tokarev's barrel.

"He won't be alone. We need to move." Bucky started packing up his dirty clothes, slipping on fresh ones. "Stark, move!"

Howard shook his head and scrambled to his feet. His hands trembled ever so slightly as he gathered up his discarded clothing and his gun. "How did they find us? We had Canadian passports and false names. Even if they knew we were here..."

"Someone must have intercepted our radio traffic."

"Impossible. I set the encryption on those things, there's no way—"

Bucky shoved his pistol into his belt. "I reported our position to HQ last night and four hours later the KGB busts down our door? That's not a coincidence, Howard."

He stumbled as he pulled up his trousers. "There's no way the Ruskies got past my encryption. There's no way."

"Then how the fuck do they know where we are?"

Howard gulped. He hated the thought already, but he'd been suspecting it for a while. Too many agents had gone missing; too many ops had been blown.

"I think we have a mole."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

"Who knew about the mission?"

Peggy pinched the bridge of her nose. "Most of the major staff of the covert operations section."

Bucky leaned on his elbows over the conference table, hands in his freshly showered hair. The major staff consisted of probably three dozen people. If they counted the lesser staff who handled the minutiae of assignments that number could easily triple. That was a lot of potential suspects.

"Maybe we can narrow it down," Howard began. "Cross reference between all the missions where we've lost agents and suspected or confirmed KGB involvement. See who knew about all of them."

Bucky looked up from the table. Peggy was nodding. Howard looked as exhausted as Bucky felt. They'd slept a grand total of five hours in the last forty-eight. Neither of them had been able to sleep on the plane, no matter how hard they'd tried. It didn't help that they'd had to divert from their original flight route for fear of being shot down. He knew he looked like shit and so did Howard. At least they'd both left the night's activities out of their reports.

"Limit it to those who were there when I reported in. We didn't have any trouble beforehand."

Peggy jotted down a few notes and spun the pen in her fingers. "We'll keep this close to our chests. It does not leave this room."

"What about Gabe, Dum Dum, and Jim?" We really gonna keep them out of the loop?" Bucky sat back in his chair. The view of the Washington Monument was partially obscured in early morning fog, a bone-white spire above a grey, coiling ocean. The Potomac was about the only other thing he could see, a lighter band in the fog, bracketed on either side by the dark outlines of the trees. The fog had rolled in just before they'd come into Washington National. It had been an interesting landing.

"I've already talked to them. I'm afraid they'll be the only help we have on this."

"I'll get Jarvis to—"

"Stark, you're butler does not have the clearance—"

"Clearance shmearance. I'd trust Jarvis with my life."

"It's an internal SHIELD matter, Howard."

"Guys, knock it off," Bucky interrupted. He could feel a headache coming on. "Look, we've worked with Jarvis before and as far as I see it, the more trustworthy help we can get, the better."

Peggy pulled a face. "Fine. But we're not bringing in anyone else, and I mean it. I don't want to lose any more agents."

"Neither do I," Howard replied. "That's why I've compartmentalized. Covert Ops is on need-to-know for the foreseeable future. If any more ops go south it'll reduce our suspect pool."

"Good. Once our suspect list is below ten, start distributing misinformation. We might be able to weed out our little red friend without him knowing."

Howard smirked but Bucky frowned. He'd been hoping that he'd get to personally kick the ass of the rat who'd sold them out. Keeping him around to send false intel back to Moscow seemed like letting him off easy.

"All right, boys," Peggy said, rising from her chair. "Let's get back to work."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

After getting Dugan, Jim, and Gabe up to speed, Bucky returned to his apartment and slept for a glorious, uninterrupted ten hours. The next day he stayed home, sifting through personnel files and mission reports. It was frustrating looking at the faces of men and women that _he'd _recruited and knowing that one of them could be a traitor working for the Soviets.

He was angry by the time he got to the bottom of the pile. There were twenty-seven agents who'd been involved in all the compromised missions and that was just his pile. Peggy and Howard would have more. Liam Murphy was on the list, as were Anne Hammond and Douglas Reeves, two of his more promising agents. A selfish part of him hoped that the mole was someone that Howard had brought in.

Statistically, the odds were in Stark's favour. He'd had a pile twice the size of Bucky's and another box of files marked CLASSIFIED: OPERATION PAPERCLIP. He'd declined to tell him what Paperclip was and Bucky hadn't been in the mood to press the issue.

It came as a pleasant distraction when his phone rang and Rebecca was on the other end. He hadn't spoken to his sister in months and he needed to now, more than ever. Thankfully she'd called to tell him she was in town, so he'd get to see her face-to-face.

Bucky decided to shell out and gave his sister the address of the most expensive restaurant in the city. He knew there was a good chance he'd run into some of his congressional enemies, but it'd be worth it if it meant pampering his sister. He did end up bumping into Richard Nixon while he waited and the Congressman gave him one hell of a cold shoulder. Bucky couldn't find it within him to give a damn.

When Rebecca showed up she was dressed to the nines. He'd never seen her in anything so fancy and he must have been staring because as they sat down, she narrowed her eyes.

"What? You think you're the only one with money?"

"Your factory job pays well enough for diamonds?"

Becca jabbed him with her fork. "If you must know, they were a gift."

He leaned across the table, conspiratorial. "You got a rich boyfriend now?"

"And you don't?"

"I'll have you know I work hard for my money." He tapped the little brass pin on his lapel—the eagle emblem of SHIELD. "You know it's been less than seventy-two hours since I was shot at last."

His sister frowned. "You were the one who chose to be a spy."

"Because I had _so _many options."

His sarcasm didn't seem to have any effect. "Run for office," Becca said, waving her fingers like some hack magician trying to hypnotize someone.

"I'm not running for office. Jesus, why does everyone want me to turn into some boring old senator?"

"Do you know how much action senators get?"

Bucky snorted. "Yeah, and that action is female. Seeing _you _naked up at the lake in '34 was bad enough."

She jabbed him again.

Their lunch arrived on bone china that was probably worth more than Bucky's first apartment. The food was decent, but he got impression that it was the plates he was paying for. He'd had better meals at cheaper places.

"In all seriousness," Becca began. "You don't have anyone in your life?"

Bucky shrugged. It was a topic he'd tried to avoid.

"I know no one's going to measure up to Steve, but you can't spend the rest of your life alone."

"I know." He poked at his food. "I just... I haven't found the right guy yet."

"Well you're not going to find him running around Europe playing spy. You should try settling down."

"What, and have a desk job for the rest of my life? No thanks."

Becca grumbled. "We worry about you, y'know."

"Who's we?" Bucky couldn't exactly see his parents fretting, not after the last conversation they'd had. And it certainly wasn't going to be Thomas.

"Nana and I."

Bucky swallowed. He knew without asking that it wasn't Grandma Bernice that Becca was referring to. She didn't get along with Old Benny or Grandpa Irving. The Barnes' had never completely approved of their son marrying a Jew from Romania, even if she had anglicized her name.

"Nana's worried about me?" It was somewhat of a surprise. Nana Angelescu was an old-fashioned woman. She went to synagogue daily. She spoke perfect Hebrew. What Bucky knew of the Torah had come from her. "Does she know why the folks and I aren't talkin'?"

"Yes."

"And she's not mad?"

Becca chuckled. "The only thing she's mad about is that you weren't circumcised."

"She's always been mad about that." He gulped back a generous amount of wine. "She doesn't care that I'm..."

"A big ol' queer? No." Becca's smile became a smirk. "She sussed you out when you were six. Said no regular boy takes that much interest in the tuckus of his male cousin."

Bucky felt his face flush. "Third cousin, twice removed," he insisted.

His sister giggled, falling back in her seat. "Sure, sure. You know I've never seen that shade of red on a face before."

"Bite me."

"Oh, ease up, Buck Rogers. I'm only teasin'." She ate the last bite of her lamb and dabbed at the corners of her mouth. "Look, she wants to see you."

"Be serious."

"I am being serious." She put on the pouty look that had always worked on their father.

"I thought I was persona-non-grata with the family."

"With Ma and Pops, sure. They actually turned the TV off when your hearing came on, and you know how dad likes watchin' McCarthy."

"I don't, actually. Last time I was in that house you guys didn't have a television."

Becca bit her lip. "Right. But the point is, Grandma wants to see you."

Bucky poked again at the last of his lunch. He didn't want to get his hopes up, but at the same time, the possibility that some branch of his family might still want him around was supremely comforting. And he'd always liked Grandma Angelescu.

"When does she want me there?"

Rebecca laughed, loud and hearty. "Christ almighty, Bucky. You _have _been in the Capitol too long." She drained her wine. "You don't have to make an appointment. She's family. Just drop in."

"All right. Tell her I'll come see her once work's cooled down a bit."

Becca leaned forward once more, with a grin and a glint in her eyes that he generally associated with reporters who'd just found a good story. "Spy situation?"

"You could say that."

"What else could you say?"

"Nothing." Bucky narrowed his eyes. "I'm not handing out classified information. You know I get paid to _keep _secrets, right?"

Becca threw up her arms theatrically. "Ruin my fun."

"If you want clearance you can join SHIELD."

"Ha!" She poked his nose. "Nice try."

He shrugged. "It was worth a shot."


	7. London Calling

_Chapter Seven: _London Calling (aka Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas)

* * *

**December 1947**

It was strange being back in London. It looked much the same as it had the last time Bucky had been there. Most of the Blitz damage was still visible, though reconstruction was well underway. The most striking difference was the nightlife. The city wasn't blacked out anymore. Illuminated windows shone like stars and his sleep wasn't punctuated by periodic air raid sirens. He didn't have to familiarize himself with the nearest bomb shelter and the streets weren't full of military police keeping an eye on the GIs.

It was a lively, freewheeling city and he would have loved to have spent more time exploring but he was here on business. So in the middle of the early morning commute he and Peggy set out in a black government car and left the confines of the city. The route was a familiar one.

The SSR's London bunker hadn't been their only facility. Outside the city boundaries, in Croydon, was a small cluster of buildings—a warehouse, a few labs, training centres. The compound was ringed with high chain fences and barbed wire. Signs warned that this was government property and that access was restricted. There were armed guards at the entrance who checked their identification before allowing them past.

The dirt road was pitted and rough, ruts worn into it by the construction vehicles which swarmed around the buildings. The car bounced past a large white sign emblazoned with the SHIELD crest and a warning: CONSTRUCTION IN PROGRESS. ACCESS RESTRICTED. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

"So. This is going to be our training facility?"

"One of them." Peggy nodded, adjusting her hat. "The Academy of Science and Technology."

Bucky pulled on his gloves. "Egghead paradise, huh? Where are they building the others?"

"We don't have a location for Field Ops yet, but Communications is set for construction in Colorado."

The driver pulled up next to another car. A huddle of people stood nearby in long coats and gloves. Two men, a woman, and a small girl who was running in circles around the adults.

"The kid has clearance?"

Peggy chuckled. "She's not coming with us when we go into the more sensitive areas. Don't fret."

It wasn't frigid outside but it was cold enough for Bucky's breath to fog. As usual, everyone else looked colder than he did. Peggy was pulling her scarf a little tighter around her neck. One of the men looked up and clapped his hands together as they approached.

"James Buchanan Barnes. How are you, old chap?"

Bucky would have known his voice anywhere. "Monty." He extended a hand but Monty pulled him into an embrace instead. "It's good to see you. How've you been?"

"Frozen solid. I hear the weather in Washington is more agreeable."

"Somewhat," Peggy replied, holding out her own hand, which Monty kissed. "How are Frances and Jackie?"

"Here to meet you, actually." Monty turned, beckoning the woman and the little girl forward. "James, Peggy. I'd like you to meet my lovely wife, Frances. Frances, this is James Barnes, and the unstoppable Peggy Carter."

"Good to meet you, ma'am," Bucky said, shaking her hand.

"I've heard so much about the both of you." Frances' cheeks were bright red in the cold. "It's truly a pleasure."

"And this," Monty said, hoisting the girl up into his arms, "is Jacqueline. Say hello, Jackie."

The girl looked a good deal more like her mother than her father. Underneath her hat was a mane of flaxen hair. Her eyes were a bright blue-green, looking between Peggy and Bucky uncertainly.

"Hello," she mumbled, hiding against her father's neck.

Peggy smiled. "Oh look, James. You've scared her."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about it." Monty kissed Jackie's forehead. "She'll warm up to you in a few minutes."

The other man who'd been standing with the Falsworths stepped forward, extending his hand. "Mr. Barnes, Miss Carter. I'm Sergeant Yates. I'll be showing you around the site." They shook hands and he gestured toward the hangar doors. "If you'll follow me."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

Even partially complete, the building was impressive. The labs were being extended over four complexes. There were offices, lecture halls, living quarters, and leisure facilities. What had been a military installation was now starting to look like a fully furnished university. While they toured the labs, Frances and Jackie remained in the cafeteria and had tea with some of the off-duty guards.

They made a few suggestions, reviewed plans and blueprints, and then left, following Monty and his wife to the family manor. Monty had arranged for them to meet SHIELD's British head of operations.

"It's a nice place you've got here, Falsworth," Bucky remarked, settling down in an eighteenth-century armchair by a fireplace that looked about 200 years older than that.

"It's been in the family since 1775. I understand the previous owners left for America and didn't return." Monty cast a glance around the sitting room; at the heavy curtains over the tall windows, the Persian rugs, the Japanese cabinets full of books and trinkets, the statuary, the paintings, the stuffed leopard next to the piano. "It was empty when my ancestor acquired it."

A tall, stately butler arrived with tea and biscuits as they got comfortable.

"Lord Falsworth, your other guests are here. Shall I send them in?"

"Absolutely."

A few moments later the butler returned, trailed by two men who were still shaking snow from their hair. The first—tall, blond, with a chiselled face and piercing blue eyes that made Bucky weak in the knees—was their head of operations. Monty introduced him as Captain Brian Braddock. He had a firm handshake and Bucky noticed that Peggy was just as flustered as he was.

But it was the other man that made Bucky freeze in his tracks. He knew the head of sandy hair, the bright green eyes, and calloused hands.

"This is my liaison to MI6, Agent Charles Bannerman." Braddock summoned him forward. "He'll be assisting with relations between our organizations."

"I believe we've already met," Charles said, smiling as he shook Bucky's hand. "Wonderful to see you again, Mr. Barnes."

Bucky struggled to find something coherent to say. MI6? The gorgeous Englishman he'd screwed into oblivion at Stark's gala had been MI6? What the hell was he supposed to say?

"Good to see you, too, Mr. Bannerman." _Does he have files on me? Was I a job? Get close to one of SHIELD's founders...? _He was still asking himself those questions when a footman announced that dinner was served. Captain Braddock was engaged in conversation with Peggy; Charles and Monty were having a quiet chuckle about something. Bucky tagged along behind, catching up with Frances and Jacqueline along the way. The girl had indeed warmed up to them and she ran around his feet with her arms out, buzzing in imitation of a Spitfire. Her mother informed him that she loved the planes. He chased her the rest of the way to the dining room pretending to be a Messerschmitt. Her squeals when he caught her drew the attention of her father, who laughed before dropping into the role of base commander. "Spitfire, Spitfire, eject. I repeat, eject. Don't let the Jerries catch you." Bucky turned out to be pretty terrible at doing a German accent.

The dining room was as sumptuous as the rest of the manor and they were seated at a long, extravagant table. There were embroidered table settings, bone china plates, spotless silverware. Bucky felt underdressed.

The staff served the food—roast venison and a full complement of side dishes—and poured hundred-year-old wine. He marvelled at the level of wealth and status that Monty had managed to keep to himself the entire three years they'd fought together. He'd never made his title known. Howard, on the other hand, couldn't help but flaunt his money at every opportunity. Was that the difference between aristocrats and capitalists?

He was seated across from Peggy and next to Charles. The wine was still being poured when he leaned over and whispered: "You didn't tell me you were MI6."

Charles grinned. "I was under strict orders not to inform anyone."

"You knew I was SHIELD."

"Everyone knows you're SHIELD."

He had a point, but Bucky still narrowed his eyes, mouth a thin line. He started slicing the venison, a touch too fiercely to be entirely polite. Charles expression turned repentant.

"Look, I would have told you if I could."

Bucky glanced sidelong at him. "You don't have a file on me, do you?"

Charles chuckled. Bucky tried not to smile but he was hard-pressed. "And if I did?"

"It had better say somethin' nice."

"Enchanting conversation. Clever, cheeky, flirtatious. Beautiful blue eyes. How's that?"

Bucky watched him, chewing slowly and drawing out the silence. Charles remained patient, unflappable. Finally, Bucky swallowed and cocked his head to the side. "Seems a bit biased. Is that what you'd tell your superiors?"

Another laugh. "No. No, that's what I remembered for myself."

"So you were thinking about me." Bucky felt his face split into a teasing grin. "Was I that good?"

Charles turned, considering him. There was a softness to his gaze that made Bucky's heart leap into his throat. The only other person who'd ever looked at him like that had been Steve. "You were lovely." He leaned in as if sharing a secret. "You know, I regretted not asking if I could write to you."

Bucky blinked, but he didn't get time to process Charles' words and reply before Monty was calling a toast and Charles was being caught in conversation with Lady Falsworth.

Monty nudged Bucky's shoulder. "How have you been holding up? Last time I saw you, you looked like a dead man walking."

"It was a rough time," Bucky conceded. The last few months in Europe felt like an eternity ago; defeating the Germans only to watch half the continent fall under the grip of Uncle Joe's Red Army. Nearly losing half of their team during the Siege of Berlin. Grieving Steve and being treated like garbage by every officer who wasn't afraid to cross Phillips. Walking through the gates of Nazi camps only to find crowds of walking skeletons clad in rags who kissed their hands in relief. They had been Jews, mostly—from Poland, Germany, Czechoslovakia, Austria. There'd been Gypsies, too, and queers. It was the closest thing Bucky had ever seen to hell on earth. The images still haunted him; more so even than the footage of the atomic bombs in Japan that had come a couple of months later. He knew it could so easily have been him with his bones showing through his skin, stumbling around in tattered prison stripes, with a little yellow star and pink triangle sewn like rank insignia to his shirt.

"It was appalling how they treated you. It really was." Monty stabbed at his venison. "I wish I could say that the King's Army would have treated you better, but I know they wouldn't have."

"S'alright, Monty. Really. I've got SHIELD, I've got Peggy and Howard and the boys." Bucky shrugged. "I'm okay."

Monty smiled. "I saw your hearing. In like a lamb and out like a damned lion. I honestly expected McCarthy to have a heart attack in front of the cameras."

Bucky swallowed his mouthful, savouring every ounce. "Don't worry. Joe'll drink himself to death long before his heart gives out."

They both chuckled and downed big gulps of wine as if to emphasize his point. Bucky had forgotten how easily Monty could improve morale. No matter what got into their heads, no matter how awful they all felt, Monty had always been able to pull them out of their funk.

"You still with the Army?" Bucky asked.

"I am indeed," Monty replied. "Mainly intelligence these days. _And _training." He leaned closer to Bucky and lowered his voice. "Peggy tells me you have a mole."

So much for not telling anyone else.

He nodded. "We're not sure who it is yet but we've got it down to a short list."

"Anything I can do?"

Bucky cast a glance around the room. No one was paying attention to conversations beside their own. Even Peggy was looking elsewhere. He remembered what Howard had said about being equals and he figured it was high time he made an executive decision of his own.

"You guys at Army Intelligence still have all the best code-breakers, right?"

The tiniest of smirks tugged at the corner of Monty's mouth. "Well the NSA keeps trying to claim _that_ honour." His expression was the kind someone would wear if they were telling you about their cute but slow-witted dog attempting a trick and failing. "But the best are still His Majesty's own."

Bucky nodded. "Good. I need your best people to decode some KGB transmissions from four months ago. It might go a long way toward exposing the mole."

Monty considered for a moment, chewing and swallowing. "That shouldn't be a problem, but all we'll get out of it is codenames."

"The more we know, the better."

"Of course." Monty shook his head. "Who knew Zodiac would be such a problem."

Bucky waved, dismissive. "Zodiac's toast. We've shut most of them down. It's the KGB that's the problem now."

The laugh that followed was bitter. "Aren't they always?"

"Hey, at least HYDRA's gone, right?"

"Here, here."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

Dinner was followed by the most decadent dessert that Bucky had ever tasted. He ate more than he probably should have and was feeling like a stuffed pig when they all moved to the larger, more formal sitting room. There was a roaring fire in the hearth but Bucky found himself wandering out onto the balcony. It was cold outside and the chill bit straight to his bones but it wasn't actually unpleasant. It was calming.

He leaned his elbows on the stone railing and looked out at the lawns and hedges, buried under snow. He imagined that the gardens were magnificent in spring and summer.

"You should be careful; you'll catch your death."

Bucky looked over his shoulder as Charles slipped out the door to join him at the railing. "Will I, now?"

Charles leaned next to him, close enough for Bucky to feel the heat radiating off of him. Their breaths fogged.

"You're not angry, are you?"

Bucky tried for a non-committal shrug. "A little. I don't like finding out that a guy I went to bed with was lying to me."

"I had to. Strict orders." Charles looked genuinely repentant. "You have to understand I'm not nearly as high on the chain of command in my organization as you are in yours. I don't get the luxury of making executive decisions."

Bucky turned to face Charles fully, studying him like he'd studied the Zodiac men that he'd interrogated. The twinkle that had been in his eyes earlier was dimmed and there was something dangerously close to fondness in there instead. He realized he'd never really taken the time to look at Charles in great detail, despite the intimacy of their last encounter. He hadn't noticed the subtle freckles splashed across his cheekbones and temples. He hadn't noticed the jagged scar below his right ear, or the hint of red in his hair, or how young he looked. And he hadn't noticed the flecks of grey in those brilliant green irises.

"Did you mean it? Regretting not writing, I mean."

Charles tongue darted out to wet his lips, which had started to bend into a hesitant smile. "I did. I was afraid I'd blown my one chance." His hand went into his hair, mussing it. "It drove me mad thinking I might never see you again."

Bucky gulped. There was part of him that recoiled from the emotions that threatened to rise in his chest. He'd felt them before and it had ended badly and he didn't want to go through that again. But the rest of him was buzzing with elation. He could feel his cheeks flushing.

"You missed me?"

"Of course I did."

He was flattered and he was remembering those hands on his hips but he needed an answer to the question boring into his brain.

"So what _were_ you doing at Stark's gala? Why were you undercover?"

Charles grinned, sheepish, like a kid caught stealing cookies before dinner. "I was assessing the... I suppose you could say, competency of SHIELD's leadership."

Bucky raised his eyebrows. "So you _do _have a file on me."

"C was deciding whether to extend the hand of cooperation to SHIELD and sent me to determine whether Howard and yourself could be relied upon."

"And did we pass?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

An awkward silence descended, Bucky still watching Charles. The agent carried himself like a lord but he looked younger than Bucky was. Even more so when he smiled. He wondered what on earth the man could possibly see in a prickly, foul-tempered Brooklyn boy with more pride and hurt than sense and not an ounce of charm left.

Monty must have put a record on because the first notes of _White Christmas_ drifted out into the cold air as they stood there together. Charles glanced over at him and held out his hand.

"Care to dance?"

Bucky looked back through the glass of the doors, at Monty and Peggy and Braddock.

"Aren't you worried about outing yourself?"

Charles laughed, soft and low. "No, no. Monty and I went to school together. He knows all about my tendencies."

Bucky returned his gaze to Charles but didn't yet hold out his hand. "Can I call you Charlie?"

Charles' smile relaxed. "You may. If I can call you James."

"Please, call me Bucky. Everyone else does."

"I know. But James suits you." Charles cast an appraising look up and down Bucky's body. "It's a king's name."

Bucky grinned and laid his hand in Charles'. "James it is."

Charles leaned down, kissing the back of Bucky's hand before gently tugging him away from the railing and against him. One hand settled on his waist, the other holding his own aloft, and they fell into the slow rhythm of a waltz. Bucky let Charles lead; he'd followed before, when he'd taught his little brother, Thomas, to dance. And anyway, he rather enjoyed leaning against Charles' solid frame.

"How long will you be here in our lovely country?" Charles asked as snowflakes began to drift down around them, sparkling in the warm light from inside.

"A few days," Bucky replied, blinking away flakes that caught on his eyelashes. "I promised my Gran that I'd go see her for Hanukkah."

"Mmm, can't break a promise to a grandmother."

"Especially one who stands by her gay grandson."

"You're lucky." Charles spun him slowly, keeping perfect time with the music. "Though I was hoping that I'd get to spend more time with you."

"You could spend the night." Bucky stopped just short of waggling his eyebrows.

Charles made a pained noise. "I wish I could. Unfortunately I'm expected at the office early tomorrow morning. I have to drive back to London tonight." Damn. That put a dampener on things. Charles must have noticed the way his face fell because he pulled him a little closer. "Hey, it's not all bad news. I'll be heading across the pond in the new year."

A warm, fluttery feeling spread in Bucky's chest. An involuntary smile split his face. "You're coming to the States?"

Charles shrugged. "I may have requested assignment to SHIELD headquarters."

Bucky bit his lip. His heart was racing and he was acutely aware of every point of his body that was in contact with Charles'. "You missed me that much?"

They held each other's gaze for just long enough that Bucky had to resist the urge to check that they were alone. The song had ended and they'd both come to a halt under the golden glow streaming from the windows and he hadn't even noticed. He was lost in seas of green and it took him completely by surprise when Charles tilted his chin up and kissed him.

All at once he was back in Brooklyn, a scrawny kid with his arm around an even scrawnier blond. Back in Austria, being held aloft by Steve's unyielding bulk. Back in London, in a bar, with Steve sitting next to him and coming so close to saying 'I love you'. His mind's eye replayed every smile, every laugh, of Steve's that Bucky had been witness to. The wave of grief that came with it kicked his breath from his lungs.

Concern washed over Charles' face. "James?"

"I'm sorry." He backed up a step, feeling like an ass. "I'm sorry, Charlie, I..."

"You're remembering him."

Bucky grimaced. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right, James. Really. I understand." There was no frustration in his voice; not even disappointment. Instead there was a heavy sadness to his tone. Bucky was familiar enough with the feeling to recognize old grief. "I know how it feels to lose someone."

It had been almost three years. He should have been able to kiss someone without seeing Steve's face. And yet his mind was still echoing with memories of laughing blue eyes, delicate fingers stained with ink and charcoal, baby-soft blond hair falling in front of his face. He ran his hands over his face and through his hair, skin still crawling with guilt.

Charles closed the distance between them again, snagging one of Bucky's hands. "I had someone before the war. His name was Harry and I... I loved him. With all my heart."Charles' voice went gravelly and he took a deep breath before continuing. "But he went over with a paratroop division to help the French Resistance. He was barely on the ground an hour before the Germans caught him. They tortured him... and they shot him."

Bucky closed his eyes. Flashes of Zola's lab danced behind his eyes and he hoped for the dead man's sake that it had been Nazis that had captured him and not HYDRA.

"It took me years to stop seeing him wherever I went." Charles' eyes were fixed on their clasped hands. "I still dream about him. That night with you at Stark's gala was the first time I'd touched someone and not been haunted by his face." He paused, meeting Bucky's eyes and swallowing. "I know how hard it is to let go. Don't feel guilty on my account."

Bucky nodded, slow and solemn and let Charles pull him back against him. He leaned his face into the crook of Charles' neck and let himself be held. "_Krieg ist scheiße_," he grumbled.

Charles laughed, pressing a kiss to the side of Bucky's head. "That it is." His voice was thick with contained emotion. Fingertips tangled in Bucky's jacket tight enough for him to feel Charles' hands shaking. He wrapped both arms around Charles' middle, squeezing. Another song had started up and they started to sway to the tune.

"Come to dinner with me," Bucky blurted out, trusting his gut for once. "Tomorrow evening; in London. I'll meet you after work and we can have dinner somewhere nice."

Charles backed up, holding Bucky at arm's length. There was a smile spreading over his face. "I'd like that," he said, his voice still quiet but without its brittle edge. "I'd like that very much."

Bucky tried on another grin and this one seemed to actually come out right. "It's a date then."

A year ago the idea of meeting someone for dinner would have felt like betrayal. Now... Well, he was looking forward to it. The thought of sitting across from Charles in some nice restaurant and having a chance to chat, alone and undisturbed, brought back that warmth in his chest. There'd only been one other man who'd made his heart feel like it was about to leap out of his chest.

They continued dancing, moving inside when it grew too cold and Monty called them in. The dancing grew more lively eventually, but Bucky found he enjoyed the slower songs more. Leaning against Charles, head on his shoulder, felt right. He could feel his guard lowering for the first time since he'd sat next to Steve in a troop truck heading for the Alps. He could have happily spent the entire night in Charles' arms.

When Charles departed for the night, he snuck in another kiss. "Until tomorrow."

"Wouldn't miss it." Bucky smiled, squeezing Charles' hand.

The blond was gone in a flurry of heavy snowflakes and Bucky was left standing in the warm glow, straightening his hair.

_Damn it. You're in love._

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

The dinner had been fantastic. He'd thought that it would be nerve-wracking, or at least feel strange, to sit down for a dinner date in so public a venue. He'd grown up hiding who he was. He'd had to. But, sitting across from Charlie, it occurred to him that they both had much bigger secrets than their homosexuality. In his case, his sexuality wasn't a secret at all, and it seemed rather trivial next to the actual secrets he kept stored away in his head. He suspected it was much the same for Charlie.

"So how was your date?"

Bucky looked up from his reverie, swallowing a mouthful of latke and finding his sister's eyes fixed on him. She smiled. "You were thinking about it, weren't you?"

Bucky bit his lip and shrugged. "Maybe I was. What? Jealous?"

Rebecca chuckled. "I have my own fella, you know."

"Send him my apologies."

"Oi!"

"Now, now, you two. I won't have you fighting at my table." Ilinca Anghelescu leaned over her dinner to look the both of them in the eye. She was a stout woman; always had been. Her grey hair was tied back in a prim and proper bun and she was wearing her best clothes. Her only other adornment was her wedding ring—all that was left of Dumitru Anghelescu. She looked every inch the old Eastern European grandmother that she was.

"So, James," she said with obvious relish. "Tell me about this _goy _you're so enamoured with."

Bucky turned, mock scandalized, to Rebecca. "Do I get to tell _any _of my own stories?"

"You get to tell Nana about Charlie."

Ilinca just smiled, waiting for Rebecca to stop bickering. Bucky sighed, stuck his tongue out at Becca and took a sip of wine.

"Okay, let's see. First of all, the _goy_'s name is Charles Bannerman. He's, uh... He's British. Gorgeous. Strong, clever, charming..." He trailed off. How, exactly, could he sum up Charlie?

"What does this Charles do?"

Bucky swallowed. "He works for the British Government."

Ilinca raised an eyebrow. "He's a spy? Like you?"

"I'm not a spy, Nana. The spies work for me." Bucky speared a piece of roast beef. "And I can't tell you what Charles does. You don't have clearance."

"I'm your grandmother."

"That's not a clearance level. What would Truman say?"

"To hell with Truman. What? Does he think a Jewish nana is going to sell secrets to Nazis? Is he an idiot?"

Bucky laughed. "I think he's more worried about communists."

His grandmother dismissed the very notion with a wave of her hand and a non-committal noise. Rebecca watched them, grinning around a mouthful of roast dinner.

"Come on, now. When I meet this man of yours I want to know who I am dealing with. Is he one of those... what are they called... code-breakers?"

"He's MI6, Nan... shit."

"James Buchanan Barnes, I will not have you swearing at my table."

"Sorry, Nana, I..."

"MI6... Hm. What is it with this family and English boys?" Ilinca shook her head, though she didn't sound disapproving. "You're just like your mother." She barely paused before throwing another question at him. "MI6, what do they do?"

"They're British Intellig—Nan!"

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

"How does she do that?"

Rebecca passed the last dish to Bucky to dry. "I think it's her eyes. Post-hypnotic suggestion?"

"I oughta put her on the payroll." Bucky piled the dry plate atop the others. "She got more outta me in an hour than HYDRA did in four months."

"You could try reciting your name, rank, and serial number. Just to spice things up a little. Give her a challenge."

He stuck out his tongue. "I'm not going to pick on my Nan."

"You pick on _me_."

"You're not my Nan."

"I'm your sister."

"Exactly."

Rebecca flicked water at him and he countered by snapping a towel against her thigh with a crack. Becca yelped and it very nearly devolved into a war before Ilinca's voice called from the sitting room.

"All right, you two. Time to light the Menorah."

Rebecca got another crack in before following Bucky into the living room and who knew that a twisted towel could feel like something biting you in the ass.

Bucky couldn't recall the words of the blessing but Becca must have been practicing because she spoke it perfectly. Bucky lit the candles and followed along as best he could. About the only Yiddish he knew were cooking terms, all courtesy of his mother. He didn't know a scrap of Hebrew. But despite his linguistic deficiency it was still nice to actually be part of a family celebration. His last few Christmases had been spent with Peggy or Stark and it just wasn't the same without family.

And as it turned out, a protestant upbringing automatically made you terrible at the dreidel game. Six rounds later his grandmother had thoroughly hosed both himself and Rebecca and he was glad they'd been playing for chocolate coins and not real ones.

Later in the evening his grandmother pulled him aside while Rebecca set up the Monopoly game. He couldn't decipher the look on her face, which made him somewhat nervous, but then she reached up to cup his cheeks and smiled.

"I'm so glad you came to visit, James. I know the rest of the family doesn't want anything to do with you, but having you here has been a joy." She squeezed his shoulders, fondness replacing worry in her eyes. "I want you to know that no matter what, you will always be welcome in my house. You will always have family that loves you."

Bucky took a deep breath and swallowed down the hint of a sting at the back of his eyes. "I know, Nan."

Hugging her had been slightly awkward ever since he'd hit that growth spurt at fourteen and shot up to nearly six foot. Nowadays he actually was six foot and he had to bend down to properly hug her. But it was still a comfort.

"I'm so proud of you, James. Your grandfather would have been proud, too."

Bucky wasn't sure what to say to that. He'd long since come to the conclusion that it was easier to find a response to threats, insults, and anger than it was to find words to say to compliments and praise.

Ilinca stepped back, reaching up to pinch his cheeks. "A brave soldier, a good man, and a perfect grandson. If your mother and father cannot see that then they are blind." Her accent always got thicker when she was emotional.

"All right, game's ready," Becca called from the living room.

Ilinca poked Bucky's nose. "You're the bank. I don't trust your sister with this game."

"Yeah. Neither do I," he laughed, following his grandmother back into the room.

He hadn't realized how much he missed this; sitting with family, laughing, playing games, sharing dinner and stories. He missed Esther and Thomas. He missed Uncle Terry and Aunt Millicent. He missed his cousins. He missed Christmas dinner at Grandpa Irving's. He missed his pastor and the Christmas service. Thinking about all the folks he didn't get to see anymore made it feel like even more of a miracle that Rebecca and his Nana still wanted him around.

He felt stupid for spending his last two Christmases alone when he could have been here, celebrating Hanukkah with family, but there was no point bemoaning choices he'd made in the past when he'd feared rejection. The past was the past.

At least now he knew he'd never spend another holiday alone.


	8. Pistols at Dawn

_Chapter Eight: _Pistols at Dawn

* * *

**June, 1949, 10 miles south of Qonduz, Afghanistan**

The hastily constructed warehouse already looked like a wreck. Blowing sand played hell with the corrugated metal siding and there wasn't a single serviceable road anywhere nearby. Bucky was sick of digging the land rover out of sand dunes, but there was nowhere to land a plane and they were supposed to be inconspicuous. If there was someone here, Bucky wanted the element of the surprise, and if the warehouse was empty then he didn't want to leave evidence of his presence.

He and Charlie were here for the mole. Almost two years of searching and they'd finally identified the bastard and tracked him down. This sad, shoddy piece of construction was the place from which SHIELD and MI6 secrets had been sold to the Russians. Bucky ran the file through his head again. Maximillian Zaran, MI6, martial artist and weapons specialist; extremely skilled hand-to-hand combatant and excellent marksman.

"So you're confident you can take this guy?" Bucky asked, looping the strap of an AK-47 over his shoulder and turning to Charlie.

"Max and I trained together. I know his tricks."

Bucky loaded his belt with extra clips and a couple of knives. He'd learned from his years in the field that one could never be too prepared. "Doesn't that mean he knows yours?"

Charlie shrugged. "I suppose so." He strapped on a pair of fighting knives and a swagger stick and slung his Sterling onto his shoulder. "But I'm not alone, am I?"

"Oh, pressure's on me now, huh?"

Charlie mussed Bucky's hair. "It'll be a cake walk."

Their sidearms were the last thing they slipped onto their belts before leaving the land rover concealed behind a rocky outcrop and heading toward the warehouse. It certainly didn't look like anyone was around. There weren't any other vehicles or tracks, and when they stepped inside the building it was silent as a tomb.

It was obvious this had never been a real factory or warehouse. There were no shelves or equipment and no sign that there ever had been. There was no lingering scent of oil and hot metal and soot hanging in the air like old factories usually had. The only marks on the floor were dusty tire tracks.

"Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to for a meeting place," Bucky remarked. "Why does he need something this big?"

"Good question." Charles glanced up at the gantries and the upper floor and then down at the hatchway which presumably led to a basement. "You head upstairs. I'll see what's down there."

Bucky kept his automatic raised as he climbed the stairs. It seemed like they were alone, but that was no reason to drop his guard. The stairs led to an office and what appeared to be an archive. Long rows of filing cabinets, stacked two high, went wall-to-wall in the small room. A cursory flip through one drawer revealed several dozen copied SHIELD personnel files. The next drawer along was Zodiac technology reports; the one after that was full to bursting with decrypted SHIELD transmissions. There were Stark Industries formulas and blueprints, MI6 mission reports, CIA and FBI case files.

"So this is your little stash, is it?" Bucky muttered. The only obvious thing of interest in the office was the safe, so he left it untouched. The room looked innocuous enough, but it still seemed odd that Zaran would leave the place open and unguarded. Even if he didn't think his fellow agents would come calling, surely he would have locked the place up to keep local scavengers and black marketers out. The back of his neck prickled at the thought. This was too easy.

He was tempted to start looking for booby-traps right away, but if there were going to be traps anywhere they'd be in the basement. He needed to tell Charlie.

Being out among the gantries was like being back in Schmidt's factory and Bucky took careful note of all the exits in case of a repeat performance of fiery explosions. The back of his neck was prickling again, like he was being watched. He swept his eyes around the whole upper floor looking for movement, or cameras, or anything that might indicate that they were being observed.

He heard muffled words and boots on metal as Charlie ascended from the bowels of the building.

"So the KGB sends envoys here to buy information, is that it?"

Bucky was about to answer Charlie's derisive question when he heard a second voice, lower in pitch.

"Right on the money, Bannerman."

He crouched and stilled, watching below him as Charlie was led out onto the factory floor at gunpoint. He couldn't see the face of the man at this angle but he recognized the build and the red hair. It was Zaran.

Bucky brought his rifle up, watching Zaran through the crosshairs. The AK-47 wasn't the ideal choice for sharpshooting, but he was confident enough with his own marksmanship at this distance to not worry. Nonetheless, he made a mental note to never go on another mission without a sniper rifle.

"So, tell me," Charlie snarled. "How much did your loyalty cost?"

"Oh, Charles. Don't be melodramatic."

Bucky followed Zaran with the gun. If he'd had a weapon cut out for this kind of work he could have shot him already, but Charlie was between him and Zaran and he didn't want to trust Charlie's life to the accuracy of his automatic. Instead, he hovered, motionless on the poorly lit walkway, barely breathing as he waited. Morita had told him once that he was like an angel of death; patient, cold, calculating. He wasn't sure if he cared for the comparison, but he couldn't argue with the results.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end a split second before heavy boots slammed into his shoulder. He hit the walkway hard, jarring his head, his gun slipping over the edge. He heard it hit the floor and he heard gunshots but there was no time to look down. A lithe shape dropped down next to him; a blur of black and gold that lunged forward without a moment's hesitation. He rolled, just dodging the bright flash of a knife. The blow intended for his throat instead struck metal grating and he tried to take advantage of what looked like a painful impact. He drew his own knife and rolled into a crouch, but in a feat of gymnastics worthy of the Olympics, his attacker twisted around to kick him square in the chest, knocking him back as she—definitely she—withdrew her knife from the walkway.

Bucky rolled with the force of the hit, putting some distance between them. He came up onto his feet, knife in hand, and was ready when she charged again. She kicked and he dodged, catching the wrist that came his way before the blade could reach his head. She dropped it, her other hand sweeping in to catch it, and she slashed his stomach before he could stop her. The blade sheared through serge and cotton but thankfully missed flesh. Bucky planted his feet and head-butted her.

The blonde staggered backward but it was hard to assess how disoriented she was through the dark goggles she wore. In fact, if it hadn't been for the wavy, shoulder-length hair he wouldn't have thought she was human. She was silent as she fought—no huffs or puffs or grunts of pain. She didn't flinch or hesitate or wince. Knock her back and she surged forward for more.

Bucky aimed a punch but she back-flipped out of his reach. She landed with all the grace of a ballerina and pulled a pistol from her belt. There was nowhere for Bucky to dodge to and he froze as her finger started to squeeze the trigger. There was a loud bang, her gun flew sideways out of her hand, and she snarled in surprise and anger. It was the first sound she'd made.

The shot had come from below and Bucky silently thanked Charlie as he threw his knife at the blonde. She knocked it from the air with ease but it gave Bucky the chance to close the distance between them. He swung; she spun under, slicing his side. He elbowed her in the face. She kicked a leg out from under him and punched, her gloved fist striking the side of his head with a crunch. She brought her knife down; Bucky twirled clear and kicked her into the railing. This time he heard her knife fall.

He rolled to his feet and pulled his sidearm but she was up and kicking it from his hand before he could blink. Another spinning kick caught him in the face. He staggered and she was on him. Using his bent knee like a stepladder, she leapt, wrapping her thighs around his neck and hauling him to the floor.

The walkway rattled beneath them as they hit. He tried to get his hands in to push her knees apart but she locked her calves together and tightened her grip. Bucky couldn't breathe and he willed his body not to panic. He needed leverage.

He still had his second knife, which he pulled from his belt and buried in her thigh. It drew an animal snarl and distracted her just long enough for him to loop both hands in her belt and haul her up. He wrenched them both sideways, smashing her head into the railing. Her grip loosened a fraction and Bucky did it again.

She went slack and Bucky gulped air, shoving her boneless legs off of him and staggering away. The world spun and he coughed as he refilled his lungs, stepping over the blonde and toward the stairs. Now that he was able to, he looked down.

Charlie and Zaran were still at it; Zaran with some kind of small mace and Charlie with his swagger stick. There was blood on both of them and Charlie was favouring his left leg. As Bucky watched, Zaran landed a couple of brutal blows. A third sent the stick flying. Bucky bolted for the stairs.

Zaran had Charlie on the floor by the time Bucky reached the top step. He dropped the mace, drawing two long knives from the leather breastplate he wore over his shirt. Charlie made a grab for the mace but Zaran kicked him away. Bucky could see his rifle, still lying where it had fallen, and he ran for it. Zaran had one blade at Charlie's throat and another poised over his heart when Bucky's finger closed on the trigger. The AK-47 barked and Zaran tumbled backward. The knives clattered to the floor on either side of him.

Bucky darted to Charlie's side, the gun still trained on Zaran's groaning form.

"You all right?"

Charlie stared up at the ceiling for a few seconds, eyes glazed and panting. Bucky had seen a lot of men look like that after a brush with their own mortality. He figured that's what he'd looked like when Morita had saved him in Montana. He patted Charlie's shoulder.

"Come on, Charlie. Talk to me."

"I'm all right," Charlie groaned, blinking and rolling over to retrieve his swagger stick. His face was a patchwork of blood and bruises, but Bucky knew he didn't look any better. "We should secure them."

"You have cuffs?"

Charlie reached into the satchel on his belt and held up a set of steel handcuffs. "Enough for him. We'll have to find something else for his lady-friend."

Zaran laughed, sending himself into a coughing fit. "Capturing me means nothing, Charles. You've won the battle but you're losing the war."

Charlie flashed him a look of utter contempt. "No need to be a sore loser, Maxi."

Zaran kept smiling, fixing his eyes on Bucky. "You think this changes anything? You think one agent selling secrets to the KGB was the only rot eating at the heart of SHIELD? You cut me out and there will be more who will take my place."

Bucky inwardly winced. He wondered if Zaran was _trying _to sound like HYDRA or if it was a coincidence. He was about ready to put another bullet in him—this time in the head—but something stopped him.

"You gonna give me names, sunshine?"

Zaran's predatory grin was unnerving. All the more for his silence.

"Don't listen to him, James. He's just trying to save his own skin." Charlie tossed one of the cuffs to Bucky and slapped the other on Zaran's right wrist. "Give me a hand here."

Zaran was a little more liberal with his sounds of discomfort that the woman had been. Especially when they dragged him to the stairs by his bound wrists. They cuffed him to the railing and while Charlie went back down into the storage area to find something to restrain the woman, Bucky got on the radio to their waiting containment team and called them in. He was dragging the unconscious blonde down the stairs when Charlie emerged with a set of heavy irons.

In the light of the factory floor the blonde looked alien. She was encased neck to toe in a heavy black material thicker than serge but a hell of a lot thinner than the ballistic nylon they made flak jackets out of. It fit snug against her body and obviously stretched with her movements. Her boots were heavy and reinforced, as were her gloves. Her goggles looked like insect eyes; angular and opaque.

Once her arms were secure and her leg bandaged, Bucky reached up and slid off the goggles. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't there. The woman—no, _girl_—looked like she was barely seventeen and Bucky felt a twinge of remorse for the rough treatment. Then he wiped the blood from his mouth and decided fair's fair. She stirred and opened her eyes.

"Who are you?" Bucky asked.

She snapped her gaze to him with all the ferocity of a bird-of-prey. "Я вам ничего не скажу."

"Hey, Charlie. You speak Russian?"

Charlie looked up from the radio set. "Nothing beyond the niceties. Why?"

"She does."

Zaran laughed as Charlie came over to them. "You won't get a thing out of her. She's with the Red Room. When they're done with the girls they're nothing but little dolls. Isn't that right, _Petrushka_?"

"Тишина, свинья!" She snapped, glaring daggers at Zaran.

Charlie ignored Zaran, kneeling in front of the blonde. "Как тебя зовут?" All he got from her was an icy glare. He chewed his lip and changed tack. "All right... меня зовут Charles. Кто?" He gestured toward her.

She snorted at the last word and Bucky guessed that Charlie had messed something up. But as she tried to restrain her chuckle, something in her eyes changed. Some of the ferocity shattered and the fear behind bled through. She glared at Zaran and turned back to Charlie.

"Mеня зовут Елена Петровна Белова."

Charlie nodded. "Yelena Belova. Good, uh... хорошо. KGB?"

"Hет."

"Who then? Кто?"

She refused to say more, though she didn't look like she was enjoying keeping it to herself. Not like Zaran. Instead, she looked rather like a lost, bewildered child. Bucky wondered how young she'd been when her training had started.

Charlie sighed and rose to his feet. He turned to the chuckling Zaran with disdain. "All right, Maxi. If she won't talk it's your turn."

Zaran grinned and nodded his head in Bucky's direction. "This your boy-toy, Charlie?"

"I ask the questions here," Charlie replied with practiced calm.

"Then ask some, old boy."

Bucky beat Charlie to the punch. "Tell me about this rot you think is eating at SHIELD."

Zaran's face was positively devilish. "And ruin the surprise?"

"I don't like surprises."

The laugh that earned him made Bucky's blood run cold. "Then I'm very sorry, Bucky Barnes, that I won't get the chance to see your face when you find out."

"Tell me now and you won't have to miss out."

Zaran seemed to consider and Charlie pulled Bucky aside.

"Maybe we should wait for the clean-up crew. Once we've got these two into a safehouse we can interrogate them at our leisure. MI6 has men trained for this."

"Tell you what," Zaran called. "Go upstairs and look up Operation: Paperclip. I'd be interested to hear your thoughts."

Bucky and Charlie shared a glance and Bucky shrugged. "Can't hurt, can it?"

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

The files hit Howard's desk with a loud smack. From behind his newspaper he grumbled. "All right, Peggy. What did I do this time?"

"Explain these," Bucky snapped.

Howard folded the newspaper over to look past it at Bucky's scowling face. He looked surprised for a second before pulling his feet off the desk and putting down the paper.

"Explain what?"

Bucky spun the files and shoved them across the desk. The red 'Operation: Paperclip. Classified' stamp was in full view. Howard's eyes drifted over the label, his face paling. He swallowed.

"Look, Bucky, I can explain."

"Good. That's what I asked you to do."

Howard took a deep breath and ran nervous hands through his hair. "Okay, first off, I meant to tell you—"

"Skip the bullshit, Stark. Get to the point!"

"Okay." Howard nodded. "Okay. Look, these people had skills and knowledge that was useful to us. They had strategic value and we had three choices: kill them, leave them for the Ruskies, or bring them here. We chose—"

"These men are Nazi war criminals," Bucky snarled. "They _should _be in prison."

"And I would agree with you if we didn't need them working in our labs."

Bucky leaned over the desk. "Where is he?"

"Where's who?"

"You fucking know who I'm talking about! Where is he?"

Howard grabbed the files, shoving them into one of the drawers that locked. "How much did you read?"

"Enough."

His face was still pale but Stark was starting to regain some of his bravado. "Arnim Zola is working in one of our secure facilities. I'm not going to say which one. It's important research and I'm not going to let you compromise it."

"I'm _intimately_ familiar with his _research_ and let me tell you that there is nothing that man can give you that's worth it."

Howard's eyes hardened. "I'll be the judge of that." Howard actually managed a sneer. "Now will you calm down and stop taking this so personally. This is exactly why I didn't tell you."

The crack of Bucky's hand striking Howard's face echoed around the office. The room fell utterly silent for a second, Howard standing frozen in shock until Bucky hissed, his voice dangerously quiet.

"I spent two weeks strapped to a table in that man's lab while he injected me with God-knows-what that set my blood on fire. I screamed my way through hours of _dissection_ while that _thing_ tested how fast I could fucking heal! I have seen parts of myself that no one should survive seeing. I have had every part of my body flayed while that goddamn monster smiled! Do not fucking tell me to not take it personally!"

Howard said nothing, just stared at Bucky like he was properly seeing him for the first time. He actually looked afraid and Bucky found that immensely satisfying.

"He should have been at Nuremburg and he should have hung with the rest of them. So where is he?" Bucky asked again.

"Why? So you can kill him?" Howard's voice actually wavered.

"So I never have to go there and look that creature in the eye!"

For a long, quiet moment they stood, glaring at each other, the desk between them like a referee. Bucky's fingers itched and he didn't know whether he wanted to punch Howard or the wall. The rage boiling in his gut had been there since he'd opened the file in Afghanistan and seen Zola's face gazing back at him.

Howard reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver flask. Two swigs later he leaned forward, resting his forehead in one hand.

"I swear, Barnes, I will never send you to the facility where he's working. I never would have in the first place." He looked up, plastering an attempted smile on his face that came out as more of a wince. "I'm not a complete asshole, you know."

Bucky wasn't in the mood. "I'll be the judge of that," he replied with twice the sneer that Howard had directed at him. He slammed the office door behind him. Unlike back home at HQ, the wall gave a satisfactory little shudder when the door struck its frame. It reminded him of Flynn's office back in the SSR days.

He wished Peggy had been the one to come out to their temporary Egyptian office. She would have understood and she would have been honest with him. Howard, on the other hand, seemed content to continue keeping things from him.

He was grateful that the compound guards didn't speak much English beyond '_Have a good day, sir_'. Bucky didn't imagine he'd be very good conversation at the moment and the lack of a shared language saved him the trouble of having to say so. The fewer people he had the opportunity to be short with today, the better.

He got into his jeep and drove out of the courtyard without a word to anyone. It was a short trip back to the airstrip and a quick flash of his SHIELD badge got his plane refuelled and off back to Afghanistan. It was a hell of a lot quicker when he didn't have prisoners to drag along with him. He knew Charlie would be waiting for him in Kabul and he was the only man Bucky wanted to talk to right now.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

Smack dab in the middle of a Muslim country wasn't exactly where Bucky would have chosen to spend a week off with his lover, but it was where they were. He was determined to make the best of it. Even if the week off was less of an official vacation and more of a refusal to look Howard in the face.

Charlie seemed relaxed enough. It was, after all, one of his home country's colonial holdings. In theory, his British citizenship was supposed to make him untouchable. In practice, they'd found that Bucky's American accent went over much better. Apparently the new border with Pakistan was _really _unpopular and the locals had decided they no longer appreciated the British. American aid, on the other hand, was _very _popular.

Bucky, though, was not content to breeze through the streets like some colonial master, secure in any real or imagined superiority. His years in Brooklyn had taught him that the moment you saw yourself as better than someone else, you weren't. Instead, he learned the correct greetings and farewells and used them in all his conversations with locals. He picked up a smattering of phrases here and there and shop-owners occasionally chuckled and corrected his pronunciation. His Brooklyn drawl turned some of the words into garbled disasters, but on the bright side, he got really good at apologizing in at least three of the local languages.

It was equal parts respect and fear that kept Bucky and Charlie sleeping in separate rooms at the inn. Bucky didn't want to find out what they did to men like him in strict countries like this, so sex had fallen off the schedule. Sure, he hated waking up alone, but he'd rather spend a week playing platonic friends with Charlie than land them both in some squalid jailhouse. Luckily he had plenty to read during the hours after they'd both absconded to their separate quarters.

He was sitting in his bed, leaned against the headboard, _1984_ open in his lap, when he heard a tap on the wooden shutters of his window. He ignored it and it came again.

Bucky sighed and got up to shoo-off whatever exotic bird was making the noise and nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened the shutters and found Charlie's face gazing back at him.

"Mind some company?" Charlie asked, as pleasantly as if they were out for a walk.

Bucky looked down at the decorative balcony he'd very nearly knocked Charlie off of. "What are you doing?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper.

Charlie was the very picture of innocence. "I didn't think coming down the hall would be discreet enough."

"So you scaled the outside?!"

"It was supposed to be romantic." He glanced around him. "May I come in?"

"You are certifiable!" Bucky hissed. "Get in here before someone sees you!" He stepped aside and Charlie slipped into the room with a grin. He still looked like a wreck, though Bucky was no better. That much he'd figured out while shaving. Charlie had a black eye and blotchy bruises on his jaw. His lip was stitched where it had split. And yet he still managed to look impish enough to charm a smile onto Bucky's face. "I thought we were respecting local customs?"

"That's why I decided to be discreet."

Bucky shut the window, fighting the laugh threatening to escape. "Does discreet mean somethin' different in jolly old England?"

"I wasn't seen," Charlie assured him, wrapping strong arms around Bucky's middle. His teeth nipped at an earlobe. "And as long as we're not heard..." He let the sentence hang in the air. An invitation.

What had seemed like a terrible idea before suddenly didn't look so bad with Charlie pressed up against his back. He could feel him hardening against his backside and he ground himself against it. Charlie hummed, biting his neck, and Bucky felt his cock twitch and begin to swell. He melted against Charlie's stronger frame. It had been too many days since they'd last touched and Bucky's body was as eager and pliant as a working girl at the Navy Yard. He arched his back to lay his head on Charlie's shoulder, reaching behind him to play with his hair. "As long as we're not heard," he agreed.

Charlie's hand was down Bucky's pants quick as a flash, stroking and tugging him until his knees buckled. They made it to the bed without stumbling, despite Bucky's pants being around his knees when they reached it. He stepped out of them easily enough and crawled onto the bed before Charlie could shove him on. He didn't have a shirt to remove. There was no sleeping in shirts in the desert heat.

Charlie was on the bed with him a moment later; naked, flushed and erect, holding a vial he'd pulled from his pocket. It looked like olive oil.

"You always carry that?" Bucky asked with a smirk.

"Maybe," Charlie replied, a wicked grin splitting his face. He pulled Bucky into a deep kiss—at least as deep as they could manage with their faces as bruised as they were. Charlie's hands brushed up his torso and Bucky grunted in pain as one passed over the tender, bandaged spot where Yelena had sliced him. Charlie broke the kiss. "I'm sorry. I should be more careful."

His hands turned gentle, guiding Bucky down into the bedding like he was made of glass. He kept his weight off every bruise and scrape through some witchcraft that Bucky wished he could duplicate, if only to feel like more of a skilled lover than he was.

"I'm not gonna break, Charlie."

"I didn't think you would." He kissed down Bucky's throat to his collarbone. "Turn over, love," he whispered.

Bucky's eyes had fallen shut, and he grinned, laughing softly. "What? Don't trust me to keep quiet?"

"No. I don't." As if to illustrate why, Charlie reached between them and squeezed Bucky's erection. Before he could even begin to stop it, a low whimper had escaped his throat.

"Maybe you're right," Bucky conceded, writhing his hips to pump himself into Charlie's hand. The hand was removed and Bucky made a disgruntled noise before rolling face down. He felt his heart beat a little faster and a heavy warmth pool in his groin. As much as he loved seeing Charlie's face while they were in bed, there was something about this position that never failed to get him hot under the collar. Maybe it was the vulnerability.

Charlie pushed his thighs apart with warm palms, his hands moving to the small of Bucky's back and then massaging down to squeeze his buttocks. Bucky groaned into the pillow, which muffled the sound quite nicely. At least now the next guy who called him a pillow-biter would actually be right.

Charlie pulled Bucky's hips off the bed and Bucky shifted his knees up to take his weight. It was an interesting position, and he knew from experience that Charlie was enjoying the view. With his ass in the air and his face and hands buried in the pillow he was completely exposed and open. Charlie could do anything. What he did was reach for the oil.

Warm slickness was spread over his hole and a gentle hand fondled his balls while Charlie's thumb massaged the puckered opening. Bucky had to smother his face in the pillow to stifle his moan. The hand moved to stroke his cock and he felt himself loosen and open and he felt Charlie's thumb slide in.

Once he's regained his breath he rasped: "No more prep. Just fuck me."

Charlie pressed and rubbed his thumb around inside him. "You sure? You're still rather snug."

"That's the idea. Slick up."

Charlie withdrew his thumb and his hand, leaving Bucky throbbing at the loss of contact. Aside from the usual night noises filtering in from beyond the wooden slats, the only sound in the room was the wet slopping of Charlie spreading oil on himself. Bucky heard the other man's breath hitch a couple of times and he craned his neck to look behind him. Between his legs he could see his own member, hanging flushed and dripping, and beyond, Charlie's hand pumping his. It was a deliciously thick, meaty cock, which was why Bucky always liked to cut the prep short. He liked the stretch.

He returned his face to the pillow as Charlie lined himself up. He rubbed the red head of his cock up and down over Bucky's entrance. Bucky shivered, pressing back as Charlie started to press forward. It was snug, but the pop when Charlie's head got through the ring of muscle was all the sweeter for it. Bucky's breath left him in a single gust and he gasped in fresh air. Charlie pushed in deeper and Bucky clenched. The pressure on his prostate made his cock ooze.

"Christ, Charlie, I'm gonna be off like a shot when you get going."

He chuckled. "Good. I'll have time to make you come again." He slipped deeper and Bucky forced himself not to groan. He hoped he was serious.

When Charlie bottomed out, Bucky was breathless. He felt full to bursting and he rocked his hips, desperate for movement, for friction. He could practically _feel _Charlie grinning as he held still, stroking his hands over Bucky's spread thighs.

"Damn it, Charlie. I'm dyin' here!"

As if he'd been waiting for just those words, Charlie drew himself back and thrust. Bucky managed to bite off the sound that threatened to escape him. He was given no quarter. Charlie drew back again, thrusting a touch harder this time. No sooner had balls struck buttocks than he was pulling out again. On the third inward thrust Bucky shuddered and came, his cock untouched. The pillow swallowed the dying-man's moan that he didn't even try to restrain. He supposed he should have been embarrassed at how quickly he was done, but Charlie kept going and he wondered if he really would fulfill his promise.

It wasn't long before he found out. His second orgasm left him quivering and boneless and it was almost impossible to remain in position. Charlie pulled out and eased him onto his back, hooking Bucky's numb legs around his waist and entering him again. Bucky's body clenched and unclenched around the solid length of him with each push and pull of his thrusts.

Bucky's hands found purchase in Charlie's hair as he ducked down to suck at the soft flesh of his neck. He could barely breathe, unable to do much more than lie pliant and sweaty beneath Charlie. The other man's breath was hoarse and hot against his throat, interspersed with quiet grunts of pleasure and exertion. His thrusts were coming faster and harder and Bucky could feel the tension in Charlie's back and thighs that always meant he wasn't far off coming.

"God, James," he gasped. "You feel so good. I... I'm close."

"What are you waitin' for?" Bucky asked, running his palms up and down shaking sides.

Charlie smiled. "If there is one thing sweeter than coming in you, love, it's feeling you come around me."

Bucky groaned at a particularly forceful thrust and reached down to squeeze Charlie's ass. "I don't think I can manage another one."

All he got was a wolfish grin—made somewhat less ferocious by the sandy hair and flushed face. He took Bucky's half-hard member in his hand, stroking it until it went stiff and red. The thrusts of his hips stalled in favour of a slow push deeper and deeper until he bottomed out.

Buried to the hilt and still, Charlie leaned down to kiss Bucky, his tongue mimicking the rhythm his hips had followed a moment ago. He jerked Bucky's cock in quick, flicking tugs that had his toes curling. Despite his exhaustion, Bucky could feel the throb starting up again at the base of his spine.

When he started tightening and breathing faster, Charlie's hips started moving again. They were both panting, Bucky making soft, desperate noises. Just as he was tipping over the edge of his third orgasm, Charlie moaned and followed him over. His hips snapped forward, driving him deep as he spilled, Bucky's body spasming around him.

Bucky's orgasm was dry. He didn't think he had anything left to spill. Exhaustion seeped into his bones as they came down from the high and he was limp as a boned fish when Charlie pulled out.

"Jesus, is this what happens when we go without for a few days?" he asked, breathless.

Charlie pressed a soft, delicate kiss to Bucky's lips and rolled off him. Bucky didn't let him go far, curling against his side and throwing one arm across his chest. Charlie pressed his face into Bucky's hair.

"I love you, James."

Bucky smiled. It was impossible to keep his eyes open anymore, so he didn't even try. "I love you too, Charlie."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

_"Subjects fifty-four and fifty-five are dead, as I expected. Dispose of the bodies." "Yes, Dr. Zola." Hands on his body, bright lights in his eyes. "Mein Gott. This one's alive. Subject fifty-six is alive."_

_ "Find out what the untermensch can survive, Doctor. You will find I had copies of Dr. Mengele's records delivered to your office. I trust you will find them instructive." "He is the only successful subject. Surely there are better uses..." "He is also an undesirable. I may not prescribe to the same strict ideals of racial purity that the Fuhrer does, but one does not need to be as choosy as Herr Hitler to see that the Jews are a stain." "Of course. I only meant—" "Find out what the serum can do, Dr. Zola, and what it cannot."_

_ "Barnes, James. Sergeant. Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight." Laboratory lights reduced Zola to a silhouette and glinted off the scalpel in his hand. "Let's find out how well you heal." Cold, sharp slices struck at random, interspersed with deeper gouges. Struggling against the straps that held him down made it worse. He stared at the ceiling and waited for it to end. The repetition of his name, rank, and serial number became a mantra—the only wall between him and the pain. Cuts healed, removed tissue regenerated. "Small losses of tissue are regenerated within days, but it seems that large parts must be reattached. He cannot regrow a limb or an organ." Pain. Hands digging around inside him. Screaming until his throat bled._

_ Syringes. So many syringes. A syringe full of a thin yellow fluid. The table creaked and rattled beneath his violent tremors. A syringe of dark brown liquid administered with a smile sent liquid fire through every vein and capillary. He knew that the other prisoners must be able to hear his screams. His nose was bleeding and it tasted like gasoline. Injections of clear fluid directly in his heart made his pulse slow and his body stiff and sluggish. Dozens of other injections had done nothing. "Full immunity to typhus, yellow fever, hepatitis, tetanus, and tuberculosis. Impressive, Doctor." "I injected him with malaria just this morning. So far he has shown no sign of infection."_

_ He was stripped naked and strapped down once more. The table—he prayed it would be his deathbed soon—was wheeled into a freezer. They left him there, lying in the dark, his skin adhering to the metal table, until he lost his ability to measure time. They left him there until he couldn't feel anything. Until he couldn't move. He slept and dreamt of home, of Steve's hand in his. _

_ "The damage to his extremities would ordinarily have required amputation, but the worst of it healed in two days. His core body temperature should have been fatal and the damage to his cells irreparable." And yet he still lives." "Yes." He stares at the ceiling, hoping that he'll die; hoping that the next ordeal will be his last. He can see Zola and Schmidt standing nearby. "If we can replicate these results we can turn the tide in Russia." "My thoughts exactly. What next?" "If I am honest, Herr Schmidt, there isn't much more I can do without more sophisticated facilities. I wonder if we could, perhaps, acquire a small amount of Zyklon-B?" "I can arrange for it. Have you tried acid?"_

Bucky woke in a cold sweat and tumbled from the bed, his heart in his throat. His breaths came in wheezing gasps and he barely made it to the bathroom before his stomach upended its contents. When the spasms stopped he collapsed into the far corner and curled in on himself, trembling and clutching his head. He didn't realize he was crying until tears were dripping off his jaw. Phantoms of remembered pain buzzed on his nerve endings.

The floor creaked. Bucky didn't move, not even when Charlie's hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"James?" His voice was low and quiet, as gentle as his touch. "James, are you all right?"

The only sound that left Bucky's throat was a broken sob. He wanted to be able to answer, but in that moment the six years since he'd seen that lab telescoped down to mere moments. He shivered, unable to stop the tears. His ears were ringing with the remembered sounds of his men screaming and dying around him like lab animals. Like those little white rats they use back home.

"This is about Zola, isn't it?"

All Bucky could do was nod; words wouldn't come. He melted against Charlie when he pulled him into his arms. He was naked, cold, and he probably stunk of vomit and yesterday's sweat, but Charlie wasn't bothered. He just held him, cradling his head and stroking his hair.

"He can't hurt you anymore, James," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. "You never have to see him again. I promise."

Bucky clung to Charlie like he was the only rock that would save him from being dragged out to sea. Finding out that Zola had been recruited to SHIELD was like finding out that the monsters under his childhood bed had come back to get him. He'd spent the last few years content in his belief that Zola had been hanged with the rest of the captured war criminals. To know that he was still alive, still working...

The only comforting thought he could muster was that he wasn't alone. He knew Charlie would keep his promise. Still, he swore to himself that if he ever saw Arnim's rat face again he'd smash it in.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

"You wanted to see me?"

Peggy turned away from the one-way glass as Bucky stepped into the room. Her smile was a veneer; Bucky could see the frustration and anxiety in her eyes. As the years went on she spent more and more time looking like that. He didn't bring it up, but he hardly blamed her. No matter how many threats they neutralized, more seemed to pop up in their place. They were fighting an uphill battle.

"I thought you'd want to hear what we got out of Miss Belova."

Bucky's eyebrows rose. "She's talking?"

"She's surprisingly chatty, actually. I was expecting a long interrogation but she seems happy to spill anything and everything she can."

Bucky looked through the glass at the willowy blonde chained to the table. She sported some impressive bruises. The damage was easier to see without the black combat suit. He could see where the bandages wrapped around her wounded thigh. But despite the injuries she looked healthier and more alert than she had in the factory.

"She appears to have been under some sort of intensive indoctrination program," Peggy continued. "She doesn't remember her family or her home town. She can't remember anything before her training."

"New KGB program?" Bucky asked, still watching Belova. She looked too goddamned young to be working for the KGB.

"Yes." She pressed a button on the recording equipment and the speakers crackled to life. Belova's voice came through, shrill and frustrated.

_"—аю! Я не знаю!"_

_"What _do _you know, Yelena?"_

_"Что ты знаешь?"_ the interpreter repeated.

There was a pause on the tape and Bucky thought he heard a quiet sob.

_"Я не могу помню... Я тренировался—"_ She paused, then in thickly accented English, continued. _"I trained at place... название?"_

_"Called,"_ the interpreter supplied.

_"Called... I trained at place called Red Room."_

Peggy paused the recording.

"Red Room." Bucky leaned on the table. "What the hell is the Red Room?"

"That's what we're trying to find out." Peggy's gaze went briefly to the girl beyond the glass. "From what she's been able to tell us, we gather that it's the KGB's premier training facility. All the trainees are young orphan girls and are put through some sort of memory inhibiting process. It strips them of their identities. They exist to serve the Motherland. Nothing more."

Bucky frowned. "Well, that jives with what Zaran said."

"Yes. He hasn't been nearly as forthcoming as our friend here, unfortunately."

He took his eyes away from Belova, wondering what kind of horrors she'd been put through in her 'training'. "We're going after this operation, are we?" The last thing SHIELD needed was another enemy, but even Stark wouldn't be able to ignore this.

"I'd like to," Peggy replied. "Lord knows we'll need more information first. Especially if Zaran's boast about other moles in SHIELD was more than just hot air." She massaged the bridge of her nose, sighing a deep, resigned sigh. "Do you ever feel like you're missing something? Something right in front of your face? Like there's something important that you're overlooking and it just might kill you?"

Bucky smiled. "It's called paranoia, Peggy. Everyone has that."

She laughed, the stress sloughing off her shoulders. Bucky was glad he could still do that—still knock her out of that funk she got in when she was frustrated. He'd had to do that a lot back when they still worked for Flynn and the SSR.

"You're probably right." She brushed her hair from her face with a practiced swipe. "I just keep expecting the other shoe to drop."

"Me too," Bucky admitted. "Zaran's _spiel _got to me, and then I found out Zola's working for us..."

Peggy winced. "I'm sorry, James. We should have told you. I _wanted _to tell you but Howard kept assuring me he'd do it once Zola had given us something useful..." She trailed off with another sigh. "I'm sorry. I'm making excuses."

Bucky swallowed, his eyes drifting to the floor. "S'alright. I'm not mad at you."

"And Howard?"

"I'm steaming mad at Stark. Don't get me wrong. I could wring his damn neck but it ain't gonna do me any good." He wondered if he'd left a mark when he'd hit him. He kinda hoped he had; it'd serve him right for being a jackass. "I just hope whatever it is Zola's working on, it's worth it. They guy deserved the noose."

"He deserved the stake, as far as I'm concerned," Peggy hissed and Bucky raised an eyebrow. "I had the unfortunate privilege of reading all the files we confiscated from him." Bucky watched Peggy swallow, like the memory of what she'd read had brought bile into her throat.

"Anything about me?"

"In excruciating detail." She shivered, crossing her arms. "I'm afraid neither your country nor mine has a method of execution befitting that man's crimes."

Bucky shrugged. "Oh, I'm sure I could think of something." He headed for the door, wanting out of the claustrophobic space and its view of the cell. He tried to avoid the interrogation chambers as best he could. They always made him queasy.

"James?"

He turned back. Peggy was gathering up her files and had the stack perfectly straightened and rested on her hip when she made her way to his side.

"Care for coffee? Angie's in town and I'm meeting her near Capitol Hill for lunch. You're welcome to come along."

Bucky grinned. "She still think you're workin' for the phone company?"

A look of amusement passed over Peggy's features. "No. No, there were only so many times SHIELD could end up in the papers before Angie would see my face crop up."

Bucky held the door open and Peggy breezed through, the click of her heels a warm, familiar sound.

"She was surprised, but not as surprised as I'd imagined."

"Well, you spent a lot of time with me and I was always in the papers. Everyone knew I was SHIELD."

"Fair point." She looked disappointed. "Still. I'd rather hoped for a reaction."

It was Bucky's turn to laugh. "Wait 'til she finds out I'm not your boyfriend."

"She reads the papers, James. She knows who you are."

"Oh..." He threw up his arms in defeat. "Well there goes my big reveal."


	9. Where Did it All Go Wrong?

_Chapter Nine: _Where Did It All Go Wrong?

* * *

**December 1951**

Monty's estate had become a familiar and well-trod place over the years. Bucky had dropped in quite frequently, occasionally spending the night. It was one of the few places where he and Charlie could stay without being put up in separate rooms. He'd seen birthdays, Christmas parties, and New Year's celebrations, but he'd never seen the house as busy as it was now. Then again, this _was _a special occasion.

It was the first time since '45 that all the Commandos were under one roof.

Monty was acting as host, along with his wife, Frances, little Jacqueline, and their youngest, Brian, who was informing everyone who would listen that he was three. General Phillips—he'd been promoted a year or two ago—had shown up, wife in tow, and had driven up to the manor in the same car that brought a pallid, overworked Howard and the ever-patient Edwin Jarvis. Dugan and Morita arrived together, both jet lagged, Dugan sporting an impressive black eye he'd got on his last assignment. Bucky had brought Charlie along and he ended up in a long conversation with Monty about a mutual friend of theirs; some writer by the name of Ian Fleming who'd been asking opinions on an idea he had for a book.

"He better not name any characters after me."

"He won't, James. You two didn't exactly hit it off."

Gabe and Peggy showed up as the sun was setting. They'd been thick as thieves the last few months and Bucky had been trying to figure out whether they were working on a secret project or whether they were dating. The idea of them dating made Bucky smile. Imagine the looks they'd get. A nice, respectable lady like Peggy going steady with a black man; oh, how scandalous! He made a note to ask Gabe about it. It was about time the two of them found someone, and why not each other?

Last, but most certainly not least, was the one man among them that Bucky hadn't seen since 1945.

Jacques Dernier hadn't changed much in the intervening years. There were a few more lines on his face, but he still had his moustache, still had the same hat, and he was still the shortest of them. The moment he was in the door Gabe was pulling him into a bear hug. Bucky couldn't follow what they were saying, but that wasn't unusual. He'd never been good at French. What did come as a surprise was Jacques turning to the rest of them and throwing his arms wide.

"It is so good to see you all!"  
Bucky's eyebrows jumped. "What's this? Learning English, are we?"

Dernier shrugged. "All my best friends speak it. Why not?"

He hadn't realized how much he'd missed Dernier until now. He had to swallow down a lump in his throat before he could speak. "It's good to see you, Jacques." He allowed himself to be pulled into an embrace.

"How's life treatin' you?" Dugan asked.

Dernier's response was prefaced with a non-committal noise. "Well enough. The farm is as it was. You'd never know the Germans shelled it."

Bucky and the other Commandos knew better than to ask if he'd remarried. His wife had been the love of his life, and they'd both worked for the French Resistance after their village was shelled into nothing. But when HYDRA had captured them, Jacques' wife and young son had been deemed unfit for factory work. HYDRA officers shot them both in front of him.

He knew from Dernier's letters that one of the first things he'd done when he rebuilt the farm was put up little headstones for Aurélie and Stéphane on the hill overlooking the river. He would never have bodies to bury, but then again, neither would Bucky or Charlie. Harry lay in a mass grave somewhere in Germany and Steve was on the bottom of the Arctic Ocean. Bucky didn't know anyone who'd actually buried their loved ones.

But the war was behind them and no one at dinner was happier than Dernier. Bucky introduced Charlie and Dernier pretended to turn his nose up at another Englishman.

"I thought Mr. Dernier and Monty got along just fine?" Charlie asked, leaning over to whisper quietly to Bucky.

"They do," Bucky replied. He watched Charlie's eyes pass between Dernier and Monty, chewing and swallowing before chuckling. "Is this about Jacques' little pantomime?" Charlie gave him a funny look and he shook his head. "He's pullin' your leg, pal."

"He is?"

"Well he's got to pretend, right? You're English, he's French. It's tradition."

Charlie looked a little embarrassed at having missed a joke. "Ah."

"Relax, Charlie. If he didn't like you, you'd know."

The meal may have started formal but it didn't stay that way for long, quickly dissolving into tall tales and anecdotes. Most of Howard's were about some amorous escapade or another. Peggy rolled her eyes at every one. Jarvis had a few good cracks at his boss' expense, while Bucky and Peggy finished each other's sentences telling stories about the agents of the SSR. Even Phillips got in on it with what were most likely heavily fictionalized accounts of events in the Great War—when he'd been a young, charming lieutenant in the muddy trenches of France. Bucky didn't quite believe that the word 'charming' had ever been accurately applied to Chester Phillips.

After dinner, Monty rounded up the Commandos and had his butler drive them all down to the pub, leaving his wife in charge of the other guests. The pub in question was a small, squat building, painted white, with a sign that named it the Red Lion. Bucky had long since come to the conclusion that every other pub in Britain shared the name.

It was warm and loud inside. The golden glow of the lights matched the liquid on tap, the smell of which competed with tobacco smoke to clog Bucky's lungs. The racket of a dozen conversations was pierced with occasional laughter and singing. A group of Australians at the back seemed the loudest, chanting something that might have been about football.

They claimed a table near one of the windows, ordered pints which Monty vowed to pay for; allowing no argument from Bucky or Dugan, regardless of their paychecks. The beers weren't horrendously expensive, but if their track record was anything to go by they'd be packing away a lot of them. As they'd done the night of VE-day, they left an empty glass and an empty chair between Monty and Dugan.

"To the Captain; God rest his soul," Monty raised his pint.

"To Steve," the rest of them answered, toasting the empty space. Bucky gulped down a considerable portion of his drink, then raised his glass again.

"His Majesty, the King," he toasted with a smile.

Monty raised his glass to that. "So I see Charles has civilized you, after all."

"He has."

"_Vive le France_," Dernier added, which earned a chuckle and a nod from Gabe.

Not to be outdone, Dugan raised his own beer and said "God bless America." The rest of them echoed with a laugh.

By the time they were done with their joking toasts they were finished their first round of drinks. While Monty was getting refills, Dernier nudged Bucky's shoulder.

"You look much better than you did the last time I saw you. That Englishman's been good for you."

Bucky smiled, despite himself. Talking about Charlie always did that to him. He was like a damn lovestruck schoolgirl.

"You should stop yankin' his chain, Jacques. I mean, I know he's English and you're constitutionally obligated to mess with him, but I had to explain to the poor guy that that's what you were doing."

Dernier's face lit up and he started to laugh. He slapped Gabe's shoulder and relayed the story in French too fast for Bucky to follow. Gabe joined him in laughter a moment later. They were both clearly enjoying Charlie's discomfort.

"You two are sadists, you know that?"

Gabe shrugged, still grinning. "I believe the Germans call it _Schadenfreude_."

Bucky shook his head. "Of course they'd have a word for it."

"If there was one thing I learned during the war," Monty remarked over his fresh pint, "it was that to understand the Jerries and the Ruskies, you only need two words. _Schadenfreude _and _nichevo._"

Bucky snorted. "_Pravda_," he replied, exhausting his Russian vocabulary.

"What about the French?" Jim asked. "What one word do you need to understand the French, Gabe?"

"_Retraite_," Monty replied.

Dernier made a rude gesture and Monty broke into laughter. It was close enough to English that Bucky understood and hid his smile behind his drink.

"_Enfoiré d'anglais_," Dernier muttered without venom. Gabe gave a thumbs-up.

"That's two words, pal," Dugan chuckled. "He asked for one."

"Actually, I think that sums up the French rather nicely," Monty agreed.

"All right, what about us?" Bucky asked, leaning forward. "What one word is necessary to understand Americans?"

"Well, the English'd be tea," Jim said, looking at Monty like he dared him to disagree. "So... coffee?"

"Liberty," Dugan offered with a snort. Both Bucky and Gabe laughed openly at that.

"Capitalism?" Gabe supplied.

Monty was shaking his head, a sardonic grin on his face. He swallowed his mouthful of beer, put down his pint with a deliberate slowness, leaned forward, and stared Bucky in the eye.

"Late."

There was a moment of confused silence before the table, as one, burst out laughing. Jim almost managed to snort beer out his nose. Dernier reached over to clap Monty on the back. The Captain looked smug. He'd won and he knew it.

"Two world wars, boys. Two. And you were late for both."

Dugan smirked right back. "Just thought we'd give you a head start, is all."

It was like being back in '44, in some London pub and off for the night while the eggheads divided up the spoils of their latest operation. Sure, they were out of uniform, and the only ones who still _had _ranks were Monty and Dugan, but it felt like the good-old-days nonetheless. Part of Bucky expected Steve to sit down in the empty seat and ask what he'd missed.

As predicted, they did pack away a good amount of alcohol. Jim and Jacques were the first to succumb to the effects; they were both happy, affectionate drinkers. Gabe, Dugan, and Monty all handled their drink well enough and there would have been a time when Bucky wouldn't have come close to out-drinking them. But ever since Austria, Bucky had held his liquor better than anyone, with the exception of Steve. He hadn't been drunk since 1941.

Drunk or not, the Commandos still managed to get him on his feet and singing along to a tune he hadn't sung since '32, when he'd been fifteen and all dolled up for a drag ball in Harlem. He was fairly certain that was their favourite story of the night. They all joined in for a slightly off-key encore as they made their way back to the car and Monty's studiously unamused butler.

The drive back to the manor involved a lot more laughter than the drive to the pub. A lot more singing too. Bucky was the only one who could claim to be completely sober, but none of them embarrassed themselves. Whatever fine line existed between a lot and too much, the Commandos had long ago perfected the art of riding it. Nonetheless, when they returned to the manor Frances tutted her disapproval as thoroughly as she would have if Monty had been staggering drunk.

They retired to bed in ones and twos. It never failed to surprise Bucky that the place had enough rooms. He'd yet to see a big enough crowd to exceed Falsworth Manor's guest capacity. And there would be more showing up in the next week. Through some miracle they'd managed to convince everyone to have Christmas here. Even Nana Anghelescu was coming. Monty had an absolutely lovely Menorah ready—her one condition for attending. Becca was coming too, along with her husband, Ian. It looked to be a hell of a Christmas.

Not that he could quite relax yet. He and Peggy had one more thing to do before they settled in for the holidays. The last SHIELD op until January and the first behind the Iron Curtain.

"Does it have to be done before Christmas?"

Bucky looked over at Charlie as he slipped out of his trousers. He knew from past visits that he wasn't going to need much in the way of night clothes. The blankets were warm and luxurious here.

"What's wrong with before Christmas?"

"It's an awful long way to go right before the holidays." Charlie was looking down, not taking his eyes off the buttons he was undoing. Bucky frowned.

"I'm only gonna be gone for two days. It's no big deal."

"It's Russia, James."

"So?" Bucky slipped out of his undershirt and climbed into bed. "It's a cake walk. We fly into Helsinki, catch a train into Russia, find the intel and haul ass back home. We know where the facility is, we know how to get in... I've been on shittier ops. All I'm worried about is the weather."

"And if they catch you at the border?"

"Our papers are perfect, Charlie."

Charlie slid into the bed next to him. "You don't speak Russian," he said, as if it settled the issue.

"No. I don't," Bucky agreed. "But I've got passable German and my papers say I'm a German engineer in Russia on business."

"And Peggy?"

"She's my darling English wife who doesn't speak any Russian aside from technical jargon." He chuckled. "Her German's pretty much the same."

Charlie sighed and propped himself up on an elbow to lean over Bucky. "If something goes wrong?"

"Howard's there with an evac team." The answer didn't appear to satisfy him, and Bucky watched several emotions war behind his eyes. "What?"

"Surely they can send someone else."

Bucky smiled, reaching up to pinch his chin. "You're worried."

"Of course I am."

"I'll be fine!"

A subtle spectre of pain fluttered over Charlie's face and he seized Bucky's hand in his. He leaned in to kiss him and warmth spread through Bucky's chest. When they parted, Charlie rested his forehead against Bucky's.

"You know, last time I had a lover go behind enemy lines he never came home."

So _that's _what this was about. Bucky squeezed Charlie's hand. "It's all right. We have an exit plan. Several of them." He tilted his head up and caught Charlie in another kiss. "Don't worry about me."

"Promise me you'll come home."

"I promise." He stroked Charlie's cheek, pulling him forward until he rolled on top of him. "I'll be back before you know it."

Charlie ducked his head, kissing along Bucky's jaw. "Harry said the same thing." His voice was quiet and brittle and it sent a chill down Bucky's spine.

He ran fingers through Charlie's hair. "It'll be okay, Charlie. I swear."

"It better be," Charlie replied, settling his weight on Bucky's hips.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

They departed from a decommissioned RAF airstrip in the wee hours of the morning in a little prop plane. Under cover of darkness, Bucky, Peggy and Howard sailed out of Britain, over the North Sea, and into Helsinki. Not a touch of dawn showed at the horizon. The further north they flew the deeper the night seemed to get. Helsinki was still sleeping when they arrived. Howard left them at the station, heading off to meet up with his extraction team. In less than forty-eight hours they'd need to be ready to break in and out of the Soviet Union. Easier said than done.

Before he left, he passed Peggy a stack of hand-sized plastic squares and a box with several cords running out of it.

"First computer you find, plug that in and copy everything you can onto these." He called the squares floppy disks. Bucky didn't see the name catching on. Nor did he see their quarry having a computer. They couldn't possibly have the facilities to run one.

Two hours later, after changing and having breakfast, Bucky and Peggy boarded a train heading for Riihimäki as Georg Jäger and his wife, Elaine. They transferred onto the train bound for Leningrad in Riihimäki and rode it through to the tiny border town of Vainikkala. The scenery was nice, but not spectacular and didn't do anything to take Bucky's mind off what they were doing. They rumbled to a stop at the border crossing and guards boarded the train, checking each compartment. One look at his temporary work pass and the guard nodded.

"_Товарищ_," the guard said, and then he was gone. Only then did Bucky realize that the fake work pass that Howard had given him was a KGB pass. They both breathed a lot easier after that.

It was snowing when they arrived at the hotel in Leningrad. Bucky was glad they'd bundled up. He hadn't been this cold since they'd searched the Arctic for the _Valkyrie _wreck. It was looking like all those stories of Siberian cold were not exaggerated.

Much like a bed-and-breakfast back in England, the hotel served food. Dinner that night was a bowl of thick, hearty borscht with black bread and something the landlady called kvass. It was an odd sort of drink, but not too bad. He'd had worse coffee in the Army. He could tell Peggy didn't like it much, but she kept her game face on.

Sharing a room with her was strange—doubly so because there was only one bed—but since that was what married couples were expected to do, that's what they did. Bucky offered to take the floor but Peggy scoffed.

"Don't be ridiculous, James. You're gay. What am I meant to be afraid of?" Bucky didn't have an answer for that, so she continued. "I won't have you freezing to the floorboards overnight."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied with a cocky salute.

They slept back to back and Bucky discovered that Peggy was somewhat of a blanket hog. It would have been funny if it wasn't so goddamn cold. He fought back his share and tried to go back to sleep. The next morning was game day.

They woke at seven AM, on the dot, washed up as best they could without a working shower, bundled into their warmest clothes, and bid farewell to the innkeeper. Then they headed east by car to Lodeynoye Pole. From there they turned north. The easiest mode of transportation to acquire turned out to be horses. A generous German fellow lent them a pair of old work horses in exchange for the German cigarettes Bucky carried. He lit one immediately and as he puffed away on it he complained bitterly about Russian tobacco. Bucky wondered why the guy hadn't got out of Russia when he'd had the chance, but he didn't voice the question. He didn't want the guy thinking he was some KGB informant.

On horseback the snowy road out of the city wasn't as treacherous. They made good time, even uphill through the woods. If there were guard posts or perimeter sentries they didn't see them. They came across a wolf pack on their way up but nothing much came of it. The wolves just looked at them and vanished into the trees.

The compound was exactly where Belova had said it would be, halfway between Lodeynoye and Petrozavodsk. In the shadow of the tallest hillock, partially concealed by fat pines, four low, grey buildings sat abandoned. Cyrillic letters stencilled in red warned of chemical waste and ordered civilians to keep away.

"This is the Red Room?" Bucky asked, dismounting. His horse gave a snort of disapproval and pawed at the ground.

"One of their facilities, anyhow. Looks like they've abandoned it." Peggy looked around and joined Bucky on the ground. "Maybe they fly south for the winter."

Bucky smirked. "Maybe." He unslung his bag and pulled out the components of his rifle, assembling it with ease. Howard had been kind enough to provide him with a scope and alter the gun for improved accuracy. Unfortunately the upgrades only worked in single shot mode. "Let's get this over and done with."

It was only moderately warmer inside but Bucky pulled off his parka nonetheless. He didn't want his movement impeded if another operative like Belova dropped out of the rafters.

"This place looks more like a gulag than a training facility," Peggy said.

Bucky had to agree. Between the fenced in courtyard visible through the windows, the heavy security gates between the entrance foyer and the next room, and the metal grating in every pane of glass, it looked like an American penitentiary. Well... maybe more like a Nazi "work" camp. There was an attached factory on the other side of the courtyard. Bucky shivered and it had nothing to do with the cold.

"Well she did say the girls were locked up until their 'education' was complete." Bucky stepped over the security desk. "Reminds of that place the SSR found in '46." The building looked thoroughly cleaned out. The hallways past the gate started out flanked by offices—all empty—but started getting messier and more industrial as they circled into the next building. These doors were locked and looked like storage or filing rooms. The halls past those looked like the back room of a zoo.

"Jesus." Bucky stopped in his tracks, looking around at the filthy concrete cells and rusted bars. Inside each cell was a stained mattress, a tap and a drain. Beneath the smell of damp and decay and rusting metal, Bucky could just detect the coppery scent of blood and the sharp stink of stale piss. "Is this where they keep them?" It was cold and the taps dripped in a maddening rhythm that echoed off the bare walls.

"I think this is where they break them."

Bucky swallowed. "Let's get what we need and get the hell out of here."

"Agreed."

The passageway split upon entering the third building. One hall descended into a basement, another into a mass of dormitory-style rooms. The third hall led to a set of double doors whose paint had been removed with what appeared to be acid. Whoever had had their logo painted on that door had wanted it removed as quickly and thoroughly as possible.

"They knew we were coming?" Bucky asked.

"No. They couldn't have." Peggy narrowed her eyes at the vaguely circular patch of corroded metal. "They didn't want to leave evidence, apparently." She pushed the doors open, hinges screaming.

The room beyond was dark but a bank of switches by the entrance brought up the lights. The room was huge and clean and empty aside from rows and rows of databanks. Peggy flipped the last switch and the machines hummed into life.

Bucky stared, awestruck. "They've got a computer?"

"Seems Howard knew what he was talking about after all." Peggy withdrew the drive and the disks from her bag. "I imagine this copying will take a while. We should find a way to plug this in."

Bucky nodded toward the central machine. "Looks like everything connects up to that monitor. It's probably your best bet." He looked around at the cavernous room. "I'll have a look around, though. You never know." He wasn't going to admit it—not in the middle of an important mission—but he was just looking for an excuse to get a good look at the machine. He'd never been in the same room as a computer before. It felt like stepping into the future.

Peggy chuckled knowingly. "If you find any paper files, pocket them."

"Will do."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

The databanks were densely packed as tree trunks in a forest. The humming and clattering of their operation made the space feel like it was alive. The whole tableau seemed somewhat incomplete, though. There should have been robots and men in lab coats and thick glasses with pens sticking out of their pockets. There should have been men from Mars or military police. Or at least Howard. He ran his fingers over the smooth casing on the nearest databank. "Welcome to the future, Barnes."

"What was that?"

Bucky jumped. He hadn't realized he'd made his way back near Peggy. "Uh... nothing. Just talkin' to myself." He stepped through the rows of computer towers and joined Peggy at the control console. "You know, there was a time when I wanted to be a physicist—like Fermi and Einstein. I wanted to work with stuff like this." He gestured around at the room.

Peggy tapped another command on the keyboard. She frowned. "Right now I almost wish you had. What stopped you?"

"Couldn't afford university." He shrugged. "And I had to work all day to pay the bills and keep Steve from coughin' himself to death. Meds don't come cheap, so if I wasn't on the docks I was a delivery boy, and when I wasn't doin' either of those I was playin' nurse maid." He didn't mention the other, less virtuous, methods by which he'd earned the rent or the medical bills. Using his mouth in a back alley for a few spare dollars wasn't something he liked bringing up in polite company.

Peggy smiled at him. "Steve told me how you used to look after him when he was sick. The way he told it, he could have sold the Pope on making you a saint."

"Me? A saint?" Bucky snorted. "The day the Catholic Church makes me a saint will be the day Hell freezes over, America goes communist, and palm trees start growing in Siberia."

"Or the day pigs grow tired of flying and return to the ground?"

Bucky chuckled. "Yeah, there you go." He leaned over to look at the screen. "How's it coming?"

"Surprisingly well. I've already filled two disks. Seems they weren't as thorough clearing out their computer files as they were with everything else." Her eyes focused, hawk-like, on the screen. Little green letters and numbers flashed across the monitor, each line indicating a file successfully copied.

"How many more?"

She shrugged. "Haven't the foggiest. I suppose we'll have to wait and see which runs out first, their files or my floppies."

"It's a terrible name, you know that, right?"

"You know what Howard's like with names."

"Yeah. Dreadful."

The computer chirped; lines of code replaced with a blank screen and a simple message. FILE DUPLICATION COMPLETE.

Peggy stared for a moment, mouth working silently. "Well... That was quick." She ejected the partially filled third disk and slipped it into the case with the others.

"Maybe they _did _clean house," Bucky said, pocketing the case of floppies.

Peggy was about to tap the keys when the screen changed again. The message vanished, almost all of the databanks shutting down with a thump. Only one remained active, clattering and buzzing and... tapping. The rhythmic beeps took a second to sink in, but Bucky recognized them. By the look on Peggy's face, she did too.

It was a telegraph.

"I'm a little rusty on my Morse code," he admitted, but it didn't matter. A second after the beeping paused the screen lit with another message.

YOU HAVE BEEN BLIND.

Peggy glanced over at Bucky and gulped. The telegraph started up again.

NOW YOU WILL SEE.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bucky asked, trying for snarky but feeling ice settle in his stomach.

AGENT BARNES. AGENT CARTER. WELCOME TO THE RED ROOM.

"Oh, bugger."

At any other time Bucky would have been shocked at Peggy's language, but there wasn't really anything else to say. Someone knew they were here, knew they were standing in front of the computer. Bucky whirled, looking for cameras or windows that could be one-way glass.

WE HAVE BEEN EXPECTING YOU.

"We need to leave. Now."

"Ya think?" Bucky flicked the safety off his rifle and headed for the door. He didn't look back. Whatever magic the computer had held for him was gone. His heart was thumping. He was expecting to be shot at; he was expecting to be jumped by someone in black ballistic gear. He was listening for boots on concrete or the whistle of incoming artillery; the crackle of gunfire or the soft tinkling of a pulled grenade pin. His rifle was up, his finger on the trigger. Behind him, Peggy cocked her shotgun.

The sound that reached him threw Bucky for a loop. It wasn't anything he'd been expecting. Six sharp pops followed by a rumble that rattled the glass and shook the floor. They weren't field guns or mortars. They weren't even tank cannons. It happened again, closer this time; five pops and a roar. A window down the hall smashed and let in a cloud of dust. Peggy went white.

"Demolition charges."

"What?!" Bucky craned his head to look through one of the grimy windows. Sure enough, the factory and its adjoining building were gone and dust was pouring out around where they had stood. Bucky's heart sped even faster.

They both broke into a run, sprinting back the way they'd come. They were thundering past the squalid cells when charges went off behind them and the building that housed the computer crumbled into dust and debris. Bucky had never considered himself a claustrophobe but as he ran past storage rooms and empty filing cabinets the weight of the building above him seemed to hang over his head. Any second, charges would go off and turn the whole thing into so much rubble.

The bangs were deafening up close and each one felt like a kick in the chest as they sprinted into the first building. They were barrelling toward the security gate, the last building still stumbling down behind them, when the last of the charges went off directly overhead. Windows shattered; the ceiling cracked and began to fall, the walls folded in on themselves. Concrete and plaster rained down around them. Something crushed the security desk with a snapping crunch. The building groaned; the front wall slumped. The doorframe was cracking. Bucky shoved Peggy through the doorway a fraction of a second before the ceiling came down with a scream of shearing metal. Over the cacophony he heard another scream and it took him a moment to realize it was his own. The structure collapsed on top of him—the roar continuing for hours... or was it only seconds? He couldn't tell.

The last chunks of concrete and brick clattered down around him, bouncing off the bent and twisted beams. Dust caught in his nose and throat. He lay there, dazed and staring up at the sky. His ears were ringing and a throbbing pain had started in the back of his skull. The world stopped spinning—resolved itself into cold, grey sky and billows of black smoke. Towering pines swayed in a wind that he couldn't feel on the ground.

He could feel his legs. That was a good start. He could move them too, but he didn't get far before his knees clanged against metal. He wasn't pinned, but it was going to take some interesting manoeuvres to get free. His left side twinged, tingled, and went numb.

"James!"

Peggy's voice sounded distant and fuzzy, like a bad radio connection. Bucky recognized the stuffy, cottony sensation. He'd felt it enough times after German artillery bombardments. His hearing was recovering faster than it had back then.

"James! Can you hear me?" Peggy picked her way through the jagged wreckage, invisible to him until she crested the ridge of pulverized concrete that had been the front wall. Her face, pale and terrified, appeared above his.

"I'm all right," he grumbled. "I just gotta get out from under all this stuff." The snow that had been on the roof—and the roof itself—lay in haphazard piles and drifts around him. More snow was falling and the sky was already darkening again. This far north in December, Bucky was surprised the sun had come up at all. "I think my arm's pinned."

"I'll see if I can shift the girder," Peggy said, stepping around to his left. She got her hands looped underneath the sheared-off end and pulled. The metal creaked, groaned, and shifted. Agony brought the world into sudden focus, sharp as broken glass, and Bucky howled. Pain shot from his shoulder to his fingertips and down his entire left side. A gush of warmth soaked into his sleeve and Peggy cursed.

She let go of the girder. Bucky breathed harsh and fast, eyes squeezed tight in a grimace.

"I'm sorry." She pressed a steadying hand on his chest. "Hold still. The girder's cutting into your arm. I think the bone's broken."

Bucky opened his watering eyes and looked over. It was a mistake. The edge of the girder had cut halfway through his left arm, a hand's-width above the elbow. Blood was soaking into the fabric of his coat and staining the snow red. He couldn't move his fingers and even the tiniest shift sent fresh fire through the limb.

"Oh shit," he groaned.

"It's all right. We'll figure this out." Peggy's voice shook, as did her hands when she pulled field dressings from her belt and started packing them around the wound. "I just need to find something to cut the girder with."

"No," Bucky said. "You need to go. Get the intel to Howard."

"James...!"

"You can come back with a rescue party. You're not gonna find any cutting tools lyin' around here anyway."

"I'm not leaving you behind!"

Bucky reached up with his free arm. "Peggy, listen to me. Whoever set up those charges was watching. It was a trap. Right now those disks are the priority."

Peggy looked like she wanted to argue. He knew her well enough to know that spark in her eye, the tension in her jaw. She wanted to argue but she couldn't dispute the need to secure the information on the floppies. They had a rendezvous point five miles north-north-west from here and if they missed the window they'd have to find another way out of Russia.

Bucky took the case of floppy disks from his pocket and pressed them into Peggy's hands. "Take those to Howard. Go. I'll be right here when you get back. I'm not goin' anywhere."

Peggy swallowed but nodded. She took the floppies and leaned down to kiss his forehead. "Hang in there. I'll be back with Howard's boys." She slipped her extra pistol clips into his belt. "If anyone but me passes those trees, shoot them."

"Will it work on a bear?" He asked, smiling weakly and holding up the pistol.

Peggy blanched, her mouth tightening to a thin line. "Let's hope you don't have to find out." She squeezed his shoulder. "See you in a bit." Then she scrambled out of the wreckage and into the forest as fast as her winter gear and the snow would let her. Their horses must have fled when the charges went off. When she was out of sight, Bucky let his head fall back onto the floor and let out the whimper of pain he'd been holding back. He hoped the cold would numb his arm soon. With every breath it felt like it was tearing itself in two. Blood was still oozing out of the wound but the flow had slowed thanks to the frozen fluid adhering to the steel.

All he had to do was wait. He knew the kind of gear that Howard's guys would be carrying. They'd get him out.

"Damn, Nan's gonna fuss over this."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

"Okay, boys. Let's make this quick." Howard called directions to his team before the pair of sleighs had even stopped. "There are Red Army patrols crawling all over this area. Let's not get caught with our pants down."

Peggy jumped down with the rest of the rescue team, carrying a backboard and an extra medical kit. Smoke was still billowing up from the factory's carcass, but thankfully hadn't spread to what was left of the other buildings. It had taken longer than she would have liked to get the men out here for the rescue. One plane had had to head home alone with the disks and they'd had to strip it of all its medical supplies before it left. Half the team had gone with it. The other plane had been wheeled out of aerial view and left with two guards—all they could spare.

It had been dark when she'd got to the rendezvous and it was even darker now. "Over here," she called, leading the men to the crumbled remains of the entryway. Without waiting for them to catch up, she crested the pile of shattered concrete. "James. I'm back—" She froze. Ice cold dread dropped into the pit of her stomach. She didn't breathe.

_No. Oh God, no. Please..._

The space where Bucky had been was empty. The snow had been trampled to a muddy slush, chunks of concrete shifted, bricks moved aside. The girders were still where they'd fallen, but there was no sign of him.

"James?!" She called, swivelling to take in the clearing and the wrecked compound. Howard was halfway to her and frowned when she called out. He jogged the rest of the distance.

"What the hell? You said he couldn't..." He joined Peggy at the edge of the wreckage. "Shit. Where is he?"

"James?" Peggy called again. The team had started sweeping flashlights over the snow and debris and in the glow she spotted tank tracks.

"Aw, Christ," Howard muttered. He sounded ready to be sick.

Peggy turned and gasped. The light from Howard's flashlight glinted off the girder, the pool of blood underneath, and the frozen, severed arm still pinned beneath it. Bucky's arm.

"Oh my god."

The cut was clean, precise; not made by animals' teeth. At least he'd been spared that horror. Whoever had taken him had used a bone saw—a proper one. She thought about the tank tracks, the Red Army patrols, the computer message. It had been a trap and they'd walked right into it. And whoever had sprung it had wanted Bucky alive. Her heart was racing. She'd promised... She promised and for the sake of a few floppy disks she'd broken that promise.

"We have to find him. Follow the tank tracks."

"Peggy..."

She ran back toward the sleigh and the MI6 agents were already packing their equipment back into place. "If we move now the trail will still be fresh."

"Peggy..."

"Do you want to find him or not?"

Howard adjusted his hat, pushing it down further against the crushing cold. "Of course I want to find him, but we don't have the armament to go after tanks, Peggy. If we catch up, what then?"

"And if we don't?" She threw her arms out, her impatience boiling just this side of rage. "You'd rather abandon James to the KGB?"

"No! But if we go after them now there won't _be _anyone to rescue him at all. We don't have the men, we don't have the equipment and we don't have the guns. If those tanks turn theirs on us, we're cooked."

It was supposed to have been a simple mission. How had it gone so wrong, so quickly?

"What would you suggest, Mr. Stark?" She filled her voice with as much scorn as she could muster.

"We go back to the plane, do a flyover." He clipped his flashlight back on his belt. "From the air we should be able to track them to their destination. Then we come back with a commando team and proper equipment."

"Time is of the essence, Howard."

He reached out to squeeze her shoulder. "I know, pal. So let's quit arguing and get out o' here."

Stark swung up into the sleigh. Peggy hesitated, looking back at the demolished compound. It had been a long time since she'd felt like this much of a failure. And this time no one would be marching back home triumphant with liberated prisoners in tow. She was numb when she joined Howard in the sleigh and felt it surge forward.

_I'll find him, Steve. I swear._

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

Christmas at Falsworth Manor had become a sombre affair. They all tried to celebrate the way Bucky would have wanted them to, but it was hard to enjoy the holiday with another empty seat at the table. Peggy refused to admit defeat. Multiple surveillance flights had found nothing but another empty warehouse where vehicles had changed hands. One convoy had headed north and east, straight to one of the Soviet government's gulags. Spies had confirmed that Barnes was not with that convoy. The other had gone south into Kazakhstan, into another vehicle shuffle, after which the trail went cold. Both of the SHIELD spies who'd tracked that caravan were dead.

Charlie had convinced his superiors to put Bucky on MI6's missing agents list despite not being one of their own. The list was shared with MI5, Interpol, the CIA, and Mossad, and Charlie assured Peggy that such a unified effort was almost guaranteed to produce results, but she could see through his charade of confidence. Fear and grief bled into his eyes the moment he thought no one was looking. It didn't help that the one Mossad agent who'd thought she was onto something had turned up dead, with a swastika carved into her chest.

Telling Bucky's sister and grandmother was the hardest thing Peggy had ever had to do. Phillips had offered to be the one to break the news—he was used to doing that kind of thing—but she'd known it was her responsibility. She'd been the one to leave him in that clearing; she'd been the one who had to answer for it.

Rebecca had cried. Most of her first day at the manor had been spent in her room, crying into her husband's shoulder. Ilinca Anghelescu hadn't wept, but she'd closed her eyes, murmured something in Yiddish that Peggy couldn't follow, and seated herself heavily by the fire. Some of her sprightliness seeped away, as if her grief was an anchor dragging her down.

They all looked older.

It hadn't hit Peggy until that night. She'd spent three days so consumed by the search that she hadn't had time to let her feelings settle in. But sitting alone in her room after watching Bucky's family grieve she couldn't bury it anymore. She sat at her desk and cried until she ran out of tears, until she fell asleep slumped over the table. When morning came she cursed the sun for drawing her out of the comfort of her dreams.

"I'm beginning to think that I might be bad luck."

She'd been on her way to breakfast and the voice startled her. She backtracked to the window looking out on the herb garden. Curled on the seat, sunlight burnishing his hair red-gold, Charlie tried to look unaffected. He wasn't doing a very good job, but Peggy could hardly hold it against him. She sat. There was a bottle in his hand but she didn't chide him for drinking so early. When he offered it to her, she took a large swig.

"You weren't there. It was hardly your fault."

Charlie huffed and downed more cognac. "That's what my commander said to me after Harry died."

She looked at him, the sunlight stabbing at her dry and puffy eyes. "It was true then and it's true now."

Charlie's eyes were just as red, just as swollen. "It's harder to accept that when it's the second time it's happened to you."

Peggy swallowed and bit her lip. "I know it is." Fresh tears were clawing their way to her eyes but she took a deep breath and forced them down. She wasn't ready to give up. To hell with the surveillance flights; to hell with the spies. If they couldn't find him she'd do it herself. She'd be damned if she let them put the name James Barnes on the memorial wall.

"I'll find him." She put some steel behind the words. "I promised Steve and now I'm promising you. I _will _find him."

Charlie smiled; a bitter, broken thing. All pretence of confidence or hope was gone. "And I'll be right there with you."

She stood, offering her hand. "Wouldn't have it any other way."


	10. The Times They are a-Changin'

_Chapter Ten: _The Times They Are A-Changin'

* * *

**November 22, 1963**

The headstone was small, humble; not at all what James deserved. He should have been buried at Arlington, next to Steve, with the full honours that his service in the war and as a SHIELD agent merited. Peggy had fought tooth and nail to have him interred there but the brass had stuck to their guns. Burial at Arlington required a clean service record. Bucky's discharge may not have been dishonourable, but it wasn't honourable either.

So, instead, he was here: a small plot in Brooklyn, only a few rows away from Steve's parents. Like Steve's the grave was empty and, damn it, Peggy was sick of burying empty coffins.

The service was brief. They all knew that Bucky wouldn't have wanted a big, elaborate funeral. His pastor said a few words, read a couple of verses, but he didn't go on. Peggy had spoken to him earlier and knew he was furious at Bucky's parents for not showing up. Surprisingly, Pastor Fletcher didn't give God's own shit whether Bucky was queer or not.

Bucky's sister wept through the entire service, leaning on Ian. Her husband kept an arm around her, while quieting their son, who was too young to understand. James had never known his namesake; neither had his older sister Katrina. Bucky had been gone for a year when Katrina was born.

The Proctors had gone back to the church once the service was over. Rebecca had wanted to compose herself before the wake and the kids were getting restless. Howard and the Commandos had gone with them, trailing an assorted group of acquaintances and friends. Agents Thompson and Souza had come to pay their respects, despite never really getting along with Bucky. Miss Belova had come, but didn't appear to be staying for the wake. She usually preferred to stay as far from reminders of her old life as she possibly could. Clara and Bonnie had arrived with two older men who called themselves Rita and Mae. Peggy had only met them once before and they'd been wearing makeup at the time. They were much more subdued now. Even Angie was quiet.

As they passed noon, only Peggy, Charles, and Mrs. Anghelescu remained beside the empty grave. Charles was seated on a stone bench beneath the nearest tree, his head in his hands. She couldn't tell if he was crying or simply cursing fate. Peggy hadn't bothered wearing much more than lipstick; she'd only have ruined it. She'd shed tears of grief and tears of frustration.

Mrs. Anghelescu knelt by the little white stone, pressing her palm to its surface. "_Sh'ma yisrael, adonai eloheinu, adonai echad_," she said, soft and quiet. After a moment she rose, pulled her black shawl a little tighter around her face, and stood beside Peggy. She looked frail—looked every one of her ninety-three years.

"The day I first told you, you said the very same thing." Peggy tore her eyes from the fresh grave to look at Bucky's grandmother. "What does it mean?"

Mrs. Anghelescu dabbed at her eyes. "It is the first prayer we learn and the last we are supposed to say before we die. I don't think James knew it."

"So you believe he's dead?"

Ilinca sighed, heavy and resigned. "It has been twelve years, Margaret. I'm an old woman. I no longer have the energy for hope." Her accent had thickened with her grief.

Peggy bit her lip. "I won't believe it until I see a body."

Ilinca nodded, taking Peggy's hand in both of hers. "Perhaps one day you will find him. But I do not think you will find him alive." Without another word she started walking down toward the church parking lot.

Peggy fought down her emotions. She knew Ilinca was right. Twelve years was a long time. Once upon a time she'd talked Howard into letting go of Steve when she'd barely been able to herself. Now she needed someone to return the favour. Not sure of what else to do, she sat down next to Charles. She said nothing. What was there to say? She had no clue where to look next; they'd exhausted every lead they'd ever thought they had. She didn't want to give up but she didn't have much of a choice. SHIELD had officially declared James killed in action.

"I wish I..." Charles swallowed. "I would have married him, if they allowed that sort of thing."

Peggy eyed the wedding ring on her finger. "Maybe one day they will."

"Too bad James won't be there to see it."

"You never know," she said, trying to inject some false optimism into her tone. "We could still find him. Now that we're not officially looking anymore, maybe someone, somewhere, will drop their guard."

Charles raised his head but his eyes just fixed on the horizon. "Mmm, maybe." His tone made it clear that he didn't believe a word of it. Peggy wasn't going to argue with him. She had her own doubts, after all.

"Ma'am!"

Peggy looked up. A young man—one of the newly-trained priests by the look of him—came running down the path. His voice, when he spoke, was tinged with a strong Irish lilt.

"Ma'am, are you Mrs. Margaret Jones?"

It had been a little over ten years now, but hearing another surname still threw her.

"Yes, that's me."

They young priest straightened himself up. "There's an urgent call for you from your head office."

Peggy and Charles shared a glance. Urgent was rarely good; not when it came from SHIELD headquarters.

"Lead on."

~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

Dealey Plaza may have been sealed off, but the public milled about on the other side of the barricades like vultures. It was as if they thought they would bear witness to a revelation if they stood around long enough. Peggy blamed detective fiction. The silly books always had their hero coming to miraculous deductions while still at the scene. If only it were that easy.

"What _are_ they expecting to see?"

"Something exciting, I suspect. Tea?"

"No, thank you, Mr. Jarvis. I'd rather not handle a drink while I handle evidence."

Jarvis shrugged and poured himself a cup, regardless. "If I might ask, why are we here if the car and Mr. Kennedy are elsewhere?"

Peggy stood, took two steps left, and glared in the direction President Kennedy had been facing a few hours ago. "We're here because I'm trying to figure out where the second shooter was."

Jarvis gave her an odd look. "Second shooter? There was only one and the FBI has already taken him into custody."

Peggy scoffed. "I've seen the peashooter he's meant to have used. There's no way he could have fired all four shots in so brief a time."

"How do you know there were four shots? There were only three shell casings."

"Howard interviewed as many witnesses as he could when we arrived. A majority of them said there were four shots." She turned, looked back at the window where Oswald had fired from, then looked ahead of herself to the hill. "And the fatal shot did not come behind. He was shot from the front."

"Surely they've already checked for signs of other shooters."

"Just because Mr. Oswald failed to clean up after himself, doesn't mean our other culprit was similarly sloppy. And besides," she smiled, "if the FBI was so thorough, SHIELD wouldn't need to exist."

Jarvis followed her eye line. "You think he was on the hill?"

She shrugged. "The angle's right. And we have a witness who says he saw some suspicious characters on that hill shortly before the shooting."

Jarvis sipped his tea and nodded. "Did he describe them?"

"At least three men in black tactical gear, no insignia. He thought they were secret service."

"And I'm guessing they weren't."

Peggy shook her head. "There were no secret service agents on the knoll. I have that straight from the mouth of the White House Chief of Staff."

"Interesting." Jarvis looked between Oswald's window and the hill. She could tell he was imagining lines of fire. "Do we know who our mystery shooters are?"

"We don't. That's why they're mystery shooters." She pulled her radio from her belt. "Howard, have you had a chance to look at the hill?"

"_Yeah, that's where I am now. The angle's perfect. This is definitely where our shooter was hiding_."

"Anything up there?"

"_Not a thing. Our guys cleaned this place out. No shells, no fingerprints, no nothing._" Howard paused, seemingly in frustration. "_No other witnesses, either._"

"Damn." That made things significantly more difficult. She wished there'd been cameras all over the plaza and the hill. Then she could have at least seen the culprits, the car they used, their gear. Anything would have helped. "Have you heard from ballistics yet?"

"_Yeah. The official story is still a single shooter, but we've got three bullets that match Oswald's gun—all standard made. The fourth... Definitely from a different gun._" Howard paused, his shrug almost audible. "_Soviet manufacture; no rifling. Beats me what kind of gun they used_."

"Surprising."

"_What? That the Ruskies are involved or that I'm stumped?_"

"Both." She looked around the plaza again; at the crowds, the police, Jarvis, the STRIKE agents making their way toward her. "Why the hell would the Russians want Kennedy dead?"

"_It's a good question. But let's leave this for my office, shall we?_"

"Afraid you're being spied on?" Her tone was teasing but she supposed he was used to being surveiled.

"_Funny_." Something in Howard's voice had changed, but Peggy couldn't be certain whether it was to do with the investigation or whether he'd been in the bottle again. More and more frequently, lately, it was the latter.

She holstered her radio as the STRIKE team reached her. The SHIELD emblems on their shoulders were bright against the black tactical uniforms they wore. They looked out of place in Dealey Plaza—like they should have been in Vietnam. Even after four years, Peggy had a hard time believing that these men worked for SHIELD. The paramilitary arm had never quite sat right with her. It didn't help that she had no idea who was in charge of selecting recruits.

"Ma'am," the lead agent came to a stop; relaxed, but with his hand resting on the butt of his automatic. "We've been assigned to escort you back to headquarters."

Peggy raised an eyebrow. "And I need an escort why?"

The lead agent was decently tall; blond, blue-eyed, sturdy. There was something in his jawline and his smile that reminded her of Steve when she caught him at the right angle. But he didn't have the same innocence, the same softness, that Steve had had. Instead there was a shrewdness about him that she figured was the result of a privileged upbringing and the expectation of political office.

She'd expected to see Alexander Pierce running for the Senate or the House. She hadn't expected him to join SHIELD, much less its STRIKE unit. She still wasn't certain what to make of his decision to slum it with the rest of the recruits. He was in charge of the entire paramilitary branch, but that was still far from being a senior position.

Pierce smiled that smile that undoubtedly charmed the pants off ladies his own age. Peggy was old enough and married enough to be immune to his wiles. "The President was shot today, ma'am. A little extra security couldn't hurt."

"I suppose you're right." She looked around, checked her notes. Her eyes stopped on Pierce's uniform. "Agent Pierce, you wouldn't happen to have lost any of those jackets, would you?"

"Lost?"

"Yes. The men our witness saw on the hill were wearing similar uniforms—black and unmarked. Have any been stolen?"

Pierce shrugged. "Not that I know of. I could talk to the requisition officer if you like."

Peggy shook her head. "That's quite all right, Agent." Then, as an afterthought, she added, "Are you this friendly with all your superiors?"

"Only the good ones," Pierce replied with a chuckle and a grin that flashed his white teeth.

She narrowed her eyes, smirking. _Cheeky little flirt. _"Very well, Agent Pierce. Escort me to SHIELD headquarters."

Pierce nodded and turned to his team. "STRIKE. Move out."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

"And you're sure that's the angle?"

Howard looked as overworked as always; leaning heavily on his elbows, the table taking most of his weight. "The guy must be a pretty amazing shot."

"No one's that accurate, Stark. A slug with no rifling at that distance... Nobody could make that shot."

"Well, unless you want to subscribe to the magic bullet theory." The scorn in his voice was unmistakable. "Bucky could have made that shot."

"That's all well and good, but Bucky's not here."

Howard looked up at her, deadly serious. The bags under his eyes were puffy and red and he smelled strongly of cigars and whiskey. "The last time we saw him was in the Soviet Union. It was a Soviet slug that blew Kennedy's brains all over the back of the car."

Peggy scowled. "Really? That's your theory? You honestly believe James Buchanan Barnes would betray his country to become a Soviet assassin?" She felt her jaw clench. "That's low, even for you."

"Mind-control, Peggy."

"Oh, please. This isn't some sordid radio serial, Howard."

"You remember Dr. Fennhoff, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. But post-hypnotic suggestion and mind-control are two very different things."She shut the manila folder with a snap. "Have you been drinking?"

"No..."

"Don't lie to me, Stark. I can smell it on your breath."

Howard's face twisted into a frown. "If you're such a genius, why do you need to ask me?"

"I'd hoped you'd be honest."

"I'm sorry to disappoint."

Peggy sighed, messaged the bridge of her nose, and returned her gaze to the ballistics report. They had manufacturing information for the bullet, but nothing on the make or model of rifle that fired it. They knew where the gun had been fired from, but there was no trace of the shooter left on the hill. No one had seen anyone arrive or depart from the scene. Whoever this man was, he was a ghost.

"So we know Oswald was a diversion. Do we have anything on that front?"

Howard was still scowling, but he continued as if they'd never had their row. "Apparently he's willing to talk; says he wants to turn in his employers. I get the idea that he didn't know he was going to be a scapegoat." He flipped through a few pages of witness interview transcripts. "Says he'll only talk to me and you. They're bringing him up to Washington tomorrow. Unfortunately, if he was that expendable then he's not likely to know much."

"A few weak leads are better than none." She reopened her folder and flipped to the back. A few lines down, she frowned. "What's this?"

Howard looked up. "The other thing I wanted to talk to you about."

The entire sheet was a set of time-stamped orders and deployments. It started at 0600 hours—a STRIKE briefing—and ended at 1900 hours—STRIKE dismissed.

"Why have you got the deployment orders for the STRIKE team?"

"Not just STRIKE. I've got time-stamps on orders given to the FBI, the Secret Service, the Dallas Police. You name it, I've got it." Howard pushed another sheet of paper to her. "Did you know there was supposed to be an Army battalion on alert? Someone in the White House ordered them to stand down."

"We don't know who?"

"It wasn't Kennedy. That's all I know."

Peggy went back to looking at her sheet. "The shooting was after noon. Why was STRIKE deployed at 0645?"

"No idea. But they arrived in Dallas, with cargo, _before _the President was shot." Howard perked up but he looked far from pleased. "Here's an even better question: Why didn't I know about this? I'm the director. I'm supposed to sign off on every operation. Yet I didn't find out STRIKE was in Dallas until they picked me up on the hill."

Peggy swallowed. It looked bad. And if it looked incriminating to her it would look incriminating to anyone investigating Kennedy's death. "You think we're being set up?"

"That's one possibility."

"And the others?"

Howard leaned back in his chair. "The other possibility is that the STRIKE team killed Kennedy—acting alone or on orders from a third party."

Peggy thought back to Pierce and his men and the hours she'd spent in their company on the way home. They hadn't behaved like murderers, but then she'd been in the business long enough to know that murderers rarely did. She tried to imagine Pierce putting a bullet in the President's head but couldn't get the image to stick.

"Do we have anything else to go on?"

Howard checked his watch. "We might. It depends. One of our witnesses got a photo of the guy he saw on the knoll."

"A photo of the assassin?"

"Don't get your hopes up." Howard spread his hands. "The photographer was a bystander, not a professional. It might be useless."

The knock on his office door jolted Howard from his seat. His manic energy said that he was running on caffeine and only caffeine, but Peggy had long since come to expect that. He didn't admit the technician to the office; he simply took the file and shut the door.

"All right, cross your fingers."

The file hit the tabletop with a slap and Howard threw it open. Peggy had no idea what she'd expected—a blurry, grey nothing, a vague figure. This was neither of those. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't as sharp as it could be, but the figure was front and center, rifle raised. The picket fence was visible behind him, as was the vague shape of the second man, this one on the other side of the fence.

"I suppose it was too much to hope for a face."

The figure in the photo was on one knee in the grass, head tilted to look through the scope. He was clad almost entirely in black, from his boots to his form-fitting leather coat. Even the half gas-mask and goggles that obscured his features were black. The only thing that wasn't was the silver gauntlet covering his left arm. There was an insectoid look about him; like Belova when they'd first encountered her.

"Well I'll be damned." Howard leaned closer. "The same guy who knocked off that political party in Kiev."

Peggy raised an eyebrow. "There were fifty people in that room. You really think that was the work of one man?" She'd seen the pictures not long after it happened. They'd been caught off-guard. Most of them had looked like they'd been killed in the quickest, most efficient manner possible. It was one of the most gruesome, brutal scenes Peggy had ever seen.

"You didn't read the KGB file?"

"I don't believe I did."

Howard took his seat again. "It wasn't high priority; we weren't actively investigating. You know that. Reform groups in Russia get liquidated all the time. It's practically tradition. But..." He paused for dramatic effect. "Along with a load of other files our spies pilfered was a report written by one of the KGB's senior officers. Apparently they had an agent in the party who lived long enough to be debriefed in hospital. She claimed that the slaughter was the work of one guy. Tall, dark-haired, dressed in black, with a mask and a silver arm." He pushed the photo closer as he said it.

"How could one man kill fifty armed party officials and guards?" Peggy asked. "If I recall correctly, some of the men had their heads and limbs pulled off."

"I don't know. Believe me." Howard shrugged. "All I know is that the KGB agent seemed pretty rattled. She was convinced the guy's arm was robotic."

Peggy looked down at the photo. "It doesn't look like a prosthetic."

"Whatever it is—whatever _he _is—catching him is our best chance for getting answers." There was something akin to fear in the back of Howard's eyes. "Something's going on, Peggy, and I've just scratched the surface. Leviathan, the Red Room... They're part of something bigger."

"And you want to find out what."

"Yes. I do." Stark's gaze darted around the corners of the room, like he was looking for bugs. "Step one, we find this... the Soviets call him Зима Солдат."

"Winter Soldier," Peggy translated.

"We find this Winter Soldier and wring him for every scrap of information he's got."

"And if he refuses to be forthcoming?"

"Then at least we caught President Kennedy's assassin. That oughta count for something."

Peggy couldn't argue there, though she wondered how much of this was reality and how much was Howard's ever-increasing paranoia. He may have been the director of SHIELD, but if his drinking continued she was going to have to have words with Mr. Jarvis and Maria. She'd be damned if she let a friend slide into alcoholism.

"All right, we'll look into it. But you must promise me you'll get some sleep."

"I'll sleep when I'm dead. This... This can't wait."


	11. An Old Friend

_Chapter Eleven: _An Old Friend

* * *

**December 16, 1991**

Howard snarled as ACCESS DENIED : DECRYPTION FAILED popped up on his screen again. He was right damn tired of seeing that message. His fingers darted over the keyboard again and again the same message. He'd tried every high-security password he'd ever had; run every decryption program known to man. Nothing but that stupid error message. In frustration he ejected the CD and tossed it on his desk.

"Start small, Howard," he muttered to himself, slotting the floppy disk into the computer. Whatever had copied onto there had been a much smaller file—which meant less sophisticated encryption. _And _possibly useless information.

The hard drive hummed and buzzed for a long time; the decryption program gnawing away at the information. Just when he'd begun to expect the error message, his screen filled with files—decrypted and open.

"About time." He'd been ready to call Tony down from whatever he was up to in the lab. He still might have to for the CD, despite his reticence to involve his son in whatever this was. For now, at least, he could hold off.

Each file was numbered and labelled and in alphabetical order. He started recognizing names. Von Braun, Gehlen, Strughold, Zola. They were personnel files; all scientists and all from Operation: Paperclip. He narrowed his eyes and double-clicked on Von Braun's file. The document was nothing special; no different from the hard copy that Howard had looked at a million times. Name, SHIELD number, address, education, work history, psychiatric reports, medical records... Howard paused at the end of the document. There was a note that wasn't on his copy. Or any copy he'd seen, for that matter.

_Don't bother trying to recruit this one. He's gone native. The cause would be lost on him. _

The note was typewritten, so he couldn't discern whose words they were, but he scowled at it for a long time nonetheless. He opened other files and found similar notes; some warned against attempted recruitment, some reported success. Some were followed by lists of other names—men and women recruited to SHIELD by the men whose file they were tacked onto. Strughold's was lengthy. Zola's was even longer. They were all date-stamped. The earliest—starting in 1947—were all German names, but by the sixties most were American. Howard couldn't shake the feeling that some of the earliest names sounded familiar—like he'd read them before.

"Of course you have. They worked for you."

There was something else going on. There had to be. That was why he'd copied this stuff, after all. A twisting, gripping dread had settled in his stomach. A voice in the back of his mind was telling him to close the file, eject the floppy, and forget he ever saw this. The rest of him was determined to dredge up the entirety of the proverbial iceberg, no matter what he found lurking there.

He opened another window, pulling up his own stored copy of SHIELD's personnel files. He scrolled down to the first name on Zola's list. Heinz Ackermann; radar technician, communications officer for SHIELD... former HYDRA operative captured in 1945. Howard swallowed. The next name on the list was Matthias Dressler; engineer, one of the designers who worked on the first Quinjets... former HYDRA operative captured in 1945. Then Friedrich Ingersleben; neurosurgeon. Then Jan Hofer; psychiatrist. The Groß, Eberhardt, Kassmeyer, Schwenke, Oberst... all covert operatives. Every single one of them was a former HYDRA agent.

Howard ejected the floppy, tucking it into his briefcase and looking again at the CD. His dread was now a boiling nausea. Again he had the urge to toss both disks away and forget about all of it—to blast it out of his mind with whiskey and tequila. But SHIELD was his baby. He'd stood in front of Senate committees, lost nights interrogating moles, argued, charmed, and bribed his way out of a thousand shitstorms to make her what she was now. Just because he was retired didn't mean he was going to sit back and watch her rot.

He stuck the CD back into the drive and waited for the computer to register. When the window appeared, asking for a password, Howard took a deep breath.

"I'll sleep a lot better if this doesn't work."

Slowly, deliberately, he poked caps-lock and typed HAILHYDRA into the box. There was no way it would work. HYDRA was dead, defunct. It had fallen the day Johann Schmidt died. The SSR had shattered that beast forty-six years ago. Whatever Zola's cause was, it had to be something else.

The computer stopped humming and a new message box flashed up on the screen. ACCESS GRANTED : DECRYPTION COMPLETE.

Howard stopped breathing. A window opened, displaying dozens upon dozens of files; operational records, budgets, codenames, security protocols, transaction records, maps, architectural plans, more personnel files, blueprints for something called Project: Insight. Decades of material lay open to him like a lanced boil and he had no idea where to start. Heart in his throat, he clicked on the folder titled _WS-MedRec_.

Half of the contacts were reports from neurologists—brain scarring, voltages, effect duration, suggestibility, recovery times. It read like the worst kind of exploitation horror. Those voltages should have been fatal. Other files were short essays from some of SHIELD's medical staff on drug effectiveness; everything from LSD to Benzodiazepine. One of the oldest reports was actually signed by Dr. Johann Fennhoff. Howard swallowed a wave of nausea.

Amidst all the typewritten documents, a blueprint caught his eye and sent a stab of horror through his chest. It was an arm—a prosthetic. A core of carbon nanotubes with titanium alloy rods and heavy-duty servos. Complex electronics wove among the tubes, connecting to nerves where the shoulder was anchored to the body. An outside layer of interlocking vibranium plates made it almost invulnerable. The only weak spot Howard could find was at the elbow when the arm was bent. Even then, it would take another vibranium implement to take advantage of it.

He recognized some of his own work in it—work he'd shared with Zola while they'd cooperated to stop a Zodiac cell. Some of Vanko's work was in it too. But it wasn't just his own inventions that Howard recognized. It was the arm itself. He'd seen it a dozen times in a dozen grainy pictures from a dozen unsolved assassinations. In 1963 he'd thought it was a gauntlet. In 1973 he'd thought the same. And in 1978, and in 1985, and in 1989. He'd seen that arm in Dallas, in Chechnya, in Afghanistan, in East Germany. The Intelligence Community had adopted the Soviet's name for him. The Winter Soldier. To most he was an urban legend. A bogeyman.

"Jesus Christ... Right under my goddamn nose."

He didn't hear the door to his office open, or the soft chuckle.

"What's under your nose? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Howard jolted, banging his knees on the underside of the desk and almost reaching for the handgun in his top drawer. In the doorway, Maria hadn't missed the near grab, and that, combined with Howard's deer-in-the-headlights look, put a frown on her face.

"What's wrong?"

Howard ejected the CD and shoved it into his briefcase alongside the floppy. "SHIELD's compromised..." God, what was he going to do? How far did it go? Who could he trust? How the hell had this slipped past his radar—past Peggy's—for all those years? "I... I have to fix this... I have to..."

Maria was looking at him like he'd grown a second head. "What do you mean, SHIELD's compromised? What's going on?"

Howard was on his feet, stuffing more papers in with the disks. A moment's pause and he jammed his gun in there too.

"Howard?"

"Hang on!" He snagged the phone off its receiver and dialled. He knew who he needed to call. He knew who he could trust with this. Adrenaline was thrumming in every vein. Every ring of the phone seemed an eternity. His knuckles were white where he held the phone to his ear. He couldn't even tell whether it was fear or outrage. _Both. Probably both. _The sound of the phone connecting on the other end was a profound relief.

"_Director Pierce_."

Pierce's voice was so calm that Howard had to stop himself from jumping down his throat.

"Director, this is Howard Stark... We need to talk. It's urgent."

"_Mr. Stark, it's been a while. What can I do for you_?"

Howard paced the office, Maria's green eyes following him back and forth. "I need to see you in person, Alex. We've got a problem. Secure lines aren't going to cut it."

"_I was about to head home for the night. I can pencil you in for first thing tomorrow—_"

"I'm not kidding around here. This is Cuban Missile Crisis urgent. I'm coming down there—"

"_Jesus, Howard, slow down. Talk to me_."

"We're compromised... SHIELD's compromised... HY—"

Alex cut him off with a curt clearing of his throat. There was a second or two of silence and Howard knew he'd got the Director's attention. Thankfully Alex had had the good sense to stop him from blurting the whole thing.

"_Rats in the hold_?" Pierce asked.

Howard paused momentarily, then cottoned on to the hastily-constructed code. "The hold, the galley, the officer's mess... You name it. We've got a full-blown infestation."

The Director's voice sounded cautious and thoughtful when he spoke again. "_All right. I'll be in my office. Come straight up when you get here."_

"Thank you, Director." Howard nodded to Maria and darted back to his desk. "I'm on my way."

"_You're coming up from the Long Island house, right?"_

"Don't worry about it."

"_All right, Stark. Whatever you say. I'll have security on high alert._"

"Good call. See you in a couple of hours." He hung up and met Maria's eyes.

"Feel like explaining?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Howard gathered up his briefcase. "I'll tell you in the car."

"The car?" Maria asked, incredulous. "You're going to drive all the way to the Triskelion? It's a long way to Washington, you know? Unless you finally got Lola working."

Howard looked about as frazzled as he felt. "I don't have time to call the airstrip—"

"But you have time to drive to another state?" Maria sighed. "You go get the car ready; I'll call ahead and have them fuel _Bluebird_."

"Make it _Pegasus_." _Bluebird_ was fast, but Howard knew _Pegasus _could manoeuvre better. The refurbished Hurricane still had something of the old fighter in her. Maria gave him an odd look but hovered off to make the call nevertheless.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

The winding road that led from Howard's mansion down toward Brooklyn was icy and edged by high snow banks. They'd had a decent blizzard a week ago and it hadn't warmed enough to melt anything. They were treacherous conditions, and every weatherman on the East Coast had been telling people to drive carefully. Evidently Howard didn't watch the news.

Of course, with what he'd just told her, Maria didn't blame him for being in a hurry. Finding out that an enemy you'd thought dead and gone had endured the last fifty years as a parasite in an organization you built was enough to get anyone in a flap. She felt sick, herself. How many of her fellow agents—men and women she had worked with for years, trusted her life to—how many of them were HYDRA? Still...

"It'd be nice to arrive in one piece."

Howard frowned, screaming around a tight corner. "I can't afford to waste time. The entire goddamn STRIKE team is HYDRA—Harrison, Sanchez, Millhouse, Breslov; even the rookies like Rumlow. If they get wind of this before I get there..." He didn't need to finish the sentence. They'd seen the STRIKE boys in action. They'd have no trouble arranging an unexpected accident for the Director, and even the _Pegasus _wouldn't be able to outmanoeuvre a Quinjet.

Maria shivered. This could easily get ugly. It was hard to know who to trust when even the most loyal of men were HYDRA sleeper agents. They rounded another corner and this time there was a loud bang. For a split second Maria thought they'd hit something. Then Howard swore and the car started to slide. Another bang and the world blurred.

The Aston Martin flipped and rolled over the frozen asphalt, side mirrors and driver's side windows smashing. Metal screamed, spitting sparks as the car skidded along on its back. The car spun several times, chassis groaning, before coming to rest with a _whump_, the trunk buried in a snow bank.

For a moment the world was eerily silent. The only sounds were Maria's own harsh breaths and the background drone of the still-running engine. They were upside-down, cold air rushing in the broken windows. She looked to her left.

"Howard?"

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

The car was steaming slightly when it came to a rest, but there were no flames and no smoke. He would have to confirm the kill. The Soldier rose from his crouch, returning his sniper rifle to the magnetic holster on his back and unslinging the M4A1, flicking it to single-shot setting. The cold and wind were nothing to him as he trudged down the hillside. The car wreck was blocked from view by a copse of trees for twenty seconds or so, but the Soldier was not concerned. The only complication he'd faced on this mission was a fogged-up mask, which he'd removed. He would report the malfunction upon returning to base.

He crossed the icy road. The primary target was still in the car, just regaining consciousness. The secondary target was missing but tracks led from the broken window into the woods. She would be easy to follow in the snow.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

Howard blinked, groaned, and tried to move. His head was pounding and it took him a second to realize he was upside-down. Broken glass littered the roof. The seatbelt was digging into his shoulder and waist—the only thing keeping him where he was. He could smell hot oil.

"Shit," he mumbled, fumbling for the release on his seatbelt. Maria was gone. The realization took a moment to sink in. Then he noticed his open briefcase. She'd taken the disks and the gun. _She prioritized... Took the intel and ran... What the hell is she running from? _Movement caught in the corner of his eye and he froze. He had to blink and squint to focus the dark shape moving across the road. When he did, his heart jumped into his throat.

Black leather, dark hair, a metal arm... The Winter Soldier.

Every instinct told him to fight. He wanted to reach for the gun in the glove compartment. He wanted to unload a clip into the bastard's chest and finally find out who he'd been hunting all these years. He wanted to live, wanted to blow the lid off of all of HYDRA's hidey-holes. But there was nothing he could do and that was the horror of it. The Soldier was a legend for a reason. When he came for you there was no escape.

He moved like a panther; smooth and sinewy and focused. The black leather he was encased in reinforced the image. As always, everything he wore was black: his gloves, his pants, his harnesses, his holsters and belts, his heavy combat boots and his one-sleeve combat jacket. The only colour on him was the bright, crimson star painted on the shoulder of his metal prosthesis. Howard wondered if HYDRA had set out to make him look as menacing as possible or if it had been sheer chance. Whatever it was, between the suit, the arm, the blood red star and the long hair, the Soldier was intimidating.

This time, though, his insect-like mask was gone. For whatever reason, his face was bare. Howard's morbid curiosity briefly overwhelmed his fear and he craned his aching neck to get a better view as the Soldier approached.

The blank, emotionless expression on his face made him seem even more robotic than he otherwise would have, but it wasn't the most horrific thing about his face. It wasn't what turned Howard's blood to ice and sent his stomach spinning. It wasn't what turned him numb even as a thrumming ache settled behind his collarbone. He knew that face; would have known it anywhere. He knew that sharp jaw line, those bow lips, that cleft chin, those deep-set blue eyes. He'd spent the last forty years searching for that face.

"Bucky?"

The Soldier paused, cocking his head to one side like a curious dog. There was no sign of recognition—either of the name or the man who'd spoken it. Howard just stared. It had been four decades. He was an old man now, but Bucky hadn't aged a day. His hair was the only sign that time had touched him at all.

The emptiness in that face made Howard want to cry. He looked like someone had shoved a fishhook down his gullet and ripped out his soul. _Christ, what did they have to do to you to leave you like this? _He couldn't—didn't want to—imagine what sort of horrific tortures that must have been visited upon him to make him into this empty, broken thing.

"Bucky... Jesus, Bucky, we thought you were dead."

Bucky frowned, but his eyes remained blank. He raised his assault rifle and took aim. Panic settled in Howard's chest.

"Hey, come on pal. You know me."

Whatever momentary confusion had made Bucky pause evaporated. He narrowed his eyes.

"_Nyet_."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

The roar of a gunshot bounced off the hills and crackled through the trees. Maria flinched, her breath leaving her like she'd been kicked in the chest. She couldn't go back, but she didn't need to be there to know that Howard was dead. Her eyes stung, her vision blurring, but she ploughed on through the snow. She wanted to curl into a little ball and cry; wanted to crawl back to the car and hold Howard's body until SHIELD arrived. But she knew that the disks in her hand were more important that her grief. The information they held _had _to reach Pierce, and...

There were only two people Howard had told about the infiltration. _She _hadn't been the one to call in HYDRA's attack dog, which meant... God, which meant that Alexander Pierce was HYDRA. Maria's blood ran cold. _You fucking bastard! You goddamn slimy bastard!_

Nick Fury. She could take this to Fury. Sure, he was Pierce's friend, but there was _no way _he was part of this. She trusted Fury like she trusted no one else.

She ran her hand over her forehead and it came away bloody. She needed a phone, a computer, hell, even a pager would do. She could rewire it to send Morse code. She knew of three safehouses in the area but she was bleeding badly and was far from dressed for a hike in the snow. Especially not with pursuit.

It was too quiet. God, this was why they called him a ghost. Maria tried to put as many trees between her and the road as she possibly could, but there was nothing she could do about her trail. She couldn't hide, so she had to run. _How many others have been here; running like a lamb from a wolf?_

Her ears registered the bang a second before the pain reached her. She was on her knees in the snow before she knew what had happened. Years of honed instincts had her scrambling around behind a thick pine trunk while she was still numb. She'd been shot before and she was prepared for the all-consuming fire that arced through her chest, shoulder, and down her arms. She looked down at her torso; blood was soaking into the silk of her blouse. It was hard to breathe and when she tried, blood frothed in the wound. She dropped her head back against the frosty bark. There was still no sound of pursuit, but that didn't mean anything. She knew there was only one way she was getting out of these trees.

She reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew her 9mm, cocking it as quietly as she could. The weight of it in her hand was small comfort. How many of his victims had they found with guns in their hands?

A soft, mechanical whir sounded behind her. She rolled around the tree and fired the entire clip at the dark shape standing there, knee-deep in snow. _Christ, he got this close and I didn't hear a thing... _One bullet found its mark. Blood spattered on the snow and the Soldier grunted, but he didn't even stagger. The metal hand shot out with alarming speed and tore the gun from her grip. She tried to stand, but dark blood gushed from her chest and her legs turned to Jell-O. The Soldier moved forward and Maria shut her eyes.

_Damn you, Pierce_...

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

**May 2, 2012**

Somewhere in the back of Steve's mind, even as he'd been plummeting toward the ice, the _Valkyrie_'s engines screaming around him, he'd held out hope that he might survive. He was a super-soldier, right? _This _wasn't what he'd pictured.

Waking up sixty-seven years in the future had been disorienting enough. Skyscrapers as far as the eye could see, cars that looked like spaceships, glaring billboards, stereos roaring with music that bared no resemblance to any music that he'd ever heard... It had taken him a few days to stop feeling dizzy. Well, he still felt dizzy, but New York was still New York, cars were still cars. The billboards might have had a lot more naked people than they would have in his day, but they were still advertisements. And most of that new music wasn't half bad once you got used to it. He still preferred to listen to the old records, though. It wasn't that he thought they were better, just that it reminded him that he was still in the same universe.

What he hadn't been prepared for was waking up in a world where his friends were long since dead. Fury had told him early on that Peggy was the only one still living, but it hadn't felt real until he'd started sifting through the pile of folders stamped 'deceased'.

Colonel—no, General Phillips had passed in 1967. He'd been buried in Arlington, not far from Steve's own empty grave. Jacques and Howard had both gone in 1991—Jacques in his sleep, Howard behind the wheel of his Aston Martin when it flipped on icy roads. His wife had been in the car but by some stroke of luck his son had stayed home. He wondered if Tony was anything like his father.

Monty had gone in 1998—a stroke. His two kids were still around. Jacqueline was working for MI6 and Brian was retired SHIELD special service. He thought about visiting but he didn't have the first clue what he'd say if he did.

Heart attacks had claimed Jim and Gabe—Gabe in 1989 and Jim in 2000. They both had kids. Steve had been surprised to find out that Gabe had ended up marrying Peggy. It made him all the more hesitant to visit. They'd all moved on with their lives—found each other, had kids, grandkids. It didn't seem right to waltz back in like nothing had happened. It was why he'd put the phone down every time he'd gone to call her. She'd be in her nineties by now; on the tail end of a long, successful, happy life. What was he supposed to say? Surprise, I'm not dead?

Dugan's file listed him as KIA and Steve had to double-check the date, because there was no way the Army would have put a General in his eighties in the field... Steve winced. _Right. September 11__th__, Pentagon. I guess that adds up._

On the bottom of the stack was the file he'd been dreading reading. _Barnes, James Buchanan. SHIELD Director, Field Agent._ Despite himself, Steve smiled. Director of SHIELD. Well wasn't that something?

"Good on you, Buck."

Part of him wanted to put the file away and forget about it. Did he really need to know how his best friend died? The best friend he'd been in love with since they were teenagers? The best friend who'd loved him back and who he'd never had a proper chance with? Part of him just didn't want to find out, but he knew that if he didn't read it his mind would spend days concocting all manner of scenarios, each worse than the last.

Another KIA stamp greeted him when he opened the manila folder. Steve swallowed and checked the date. _Lost outside Lodeynoye Pole, USSR. December 19, 1951. _It felt like a kick in the teeth. Six years? That was it?

The details were all there—the mission specs, the intel, the building being laced with demolition charges, Bucky losing his arm... To think that was all they found of him. Steve almost shut the folder. It was too much. As it was, he had to get up to wash the tears off his face.

He paced the apartment, feeling the weight of the intervening years more acutely than he had the day he'd woken up. He wanted to go after him, track him down, ride to the rescue, but he was sixty-one years too late. The pacing became a walk; down the street, past the tenement they'd lived in together, past Bucky's church, then Steve's, and onto the Brooklyn Bridge. He stood there, elbows on the railing, for half an hour. He could remember loitering here for ages with Bucky, watching the ships come in. Bucky had smoked his last cigarette up here when he'd decided to quit. They'd stood up here the day after Steve's mother's funeral, when he'd agreed to move in with Bucky.

He was crying again when he got back to his apartment. It was hard to go back to the file, but he forced himself to sit down and finish reading. There were years' worth of reports covering the search for Bucky. There were memos from MI6, Mossad, the CIA; a curt missive from the White House in 1963 closing the case on him.

Steve hung his head. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. _I should have been there. Damn it, I should have been there._ He set the last memo aside. Underneath it was a handwritten note.

_I know you're probably feeling miserable right about now, Captain. So do me a favor and keep reading. The rest of this file covers all the things Bucky got up to while he was still alive. I think you'll be proud of the man he became. Trust me. _

_-N. Fury_

He sighed, setting down the note and glancing around at the corners of his apartment. He never could tell if Nick had everyone bugged, was really good at reading people, or whether he actually could read minds. Regardless, Nick had him pegged. He was miserable.

He considered the remaining papers. The topmost page was a copy of Bucky's discharge papers—Section VIII, blue discharge. This was supposed to make him feel better? He made a face, but reached for the papers anyway.

"All right, Buck. What did I miss?"


	12. Drove Through Ghosts to Get Here

_Chapter Twelve: _Drove Through Ghosts to Get Here

* * *

**September 2014**

_Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You are a man, not a thing. _He told himself that every morning. When he happened to be staying somewhere with a mirror he would say it out loud to the ragged face he saw reflected there. Most of the time he just muttered it in his own head. For a while he hadn't believed his target's words. Targets always tried to bargain for their lives. And besides, HYDRA had lied to him for sixty years. What proof was there that the target wasn't lying too? Then he'd gone to the Smithsonian; seen his own face staring back at him—younger, happier—not the gutted thing he was now. There was video of him, clean-shaven and in a suit, arguing heatedly with a red-faced senator. There were photos of him alongside men in soldiers' uniforms; photos of him beside vehicles with SHIELD's crest on the side. Emblazoned next to them was his name: _James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, US Army. Co-founder, Strategic Homeland Intervention and Enforcement, Logistics Division._

The memories started coming back faster after that. They were patchy, tattered things, like rags left out in a windstorm. He'd remember a voice, a face, something said to him. Most of his memories were of his time with HYDRA and he took to sleeping in deserted areas so that when he woke up screaming there'd be no one around to call the police. He woke up screaming a lot.

Two nights ago he'd remembered lying in the snow, pinned beneath the wreckage of a building. He remembered having a pistol in his hand; remembered firing it when the figures that crept out of the woods were not the figures he was waiting for. He remembered running out of bullets, remembered a rag being pressed to his face, remembered the world going dark. But then he'd remembered someone else leaning over him while the girder cut into his arm. A woman; brown hair, hands shaking, fear in her eyes. _"Hang in there. I'll be back with Howard's men as soon as possible. If anyone but me passes those trees, shoot them."_

Her name had been Peggy. Peggy Carter. He was pretty sure she'd been a friend. Which was why he'd cleaned up and put on fresh clothes—a black hoodie and dark jeans, soft and baggy with no holsters. It was hard not to look intimidating, but he thought he might have pulled it off... sort of.

The lady at the front desk eyed him suspiciously but she seemed to come to the conclusion that he was harmless enough. She had a young nurse named Dorian take him upstairs and show him to the right room. He flinched away when the man patted him on the back, but instead of confusion, the nurse's face filled with understanding. He wondered what the nurse had understood.

The room was quiet and he cringed when a floorboard creaked under his feet. He had to remind himself that this wasn't a mission.

"Back already, Sophie? Honestly, I'm all right."

The old woman lying in the bed barely resembled the woman he'd remembered. Her brown hair had turned grey and her full cheeks had sunken. There were deep lines etched into the flesh around her eyes and mouth. _It really has been sixty years, hasn't it?_

Her eyes fixed on him for a moment before going wide. Her mouth fell open, working without sound, as she drew in a sharp breath.

"James..."

The Soldi—Bucky shifted. His heart was pounding like he was in combat. The fog of lost decades choked him as thoroughly as if there were hands around his throat. Tears sprang into Peggy's eyes and her voice broke.

"You're alive."

Bucky nodded. He was so used to remaining silent until asked a direct question that it was difficult to gauge when people expected him to respond. His conditioning had been thorough and it was hard to break, even now.

"Da," he replied, low and gravelly, then shook his head. He fell into Russian as if it were his first language and it would never fail to anger him. That HYDRA had managed to scour his mother-tongue from his mind only furthered the violation that was everything they'd done to him. He gulped, locking his gaze on the floor. "Yeah... I'm alive."

Wet trails glistened fresh on Peggy's cheeks. "How...? My God, you haven't aged a day..."

Bucky shrugged, combing his long hair out of his eyes with his fingers; a nervous habit that had come back almost as soon as his first few memories returned. There were a few tics, both physical and verbal, that had come back in the last month or so. He was starting to _look _like himself, at least.

Peggy tried to sit up, gesturing at the chair beside the bed. "Come here. Sit down." It sounded enough like an order and Bucky obeyed mechanically, snapping into motion and pulling up the chair. His face must have blanked out like the Soldier because Peggy's filled with concern. She held out her hand and without even thinking about it Bucky took it in his left.

She froze, her expression twisting with grief. Bucky tried to pull his hand back but Peggy refused to relinquish her grip. Her other hand swept in and pushed up the loose sleeve to reveal more of the battered metal plates of the prosthesis.

"No..." she whispered, almost to herself. "Oh good God, James, I'm so sorry."

Bucky swallowed. "You didn't do this," he rasped.

"He was you all along... All these years..." She was staring through him and he was certain that horror on her face wasn't directed at him, but at some distant point in her past. "I was supposed to be looking for the Soldier and I spent all my sources looking for you. God, if I'd known you and he were one and the same..."She reached out to run her fingers over his hair. He flinched violently away and a profound sadness flickered over Peggy's face. "What did they do to you?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Bucky hung his head. "It's a long story." He knew that much was true, even though he couldn't remember much more than that. What little he _did _remember came in flashes and shards—heavy restraints tightening over his wrists, needles in his skin, fire in his veins, hands running over his body, pain, helplessness, his own voice alternately screaming and reciting endless litanies of '_Barnes, James. Sergeant. Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight.' _There was no part of him that they hadn't ruined, hadn't defiled, hadn't taken as their own. He shivered. "We were friends?"

Peggy flinched as if she'd been struck. "Yes... We were." She squeezed his hands. "You don't remember?"

Bucky nodded. "I've been remembering bits and pieces..." He shivered. "I remembered your name."

"And you came looking for me..." It didn't sound like a question, so Bucky remained silent, letting her continue. "What _do _you remember?"

Bucky's eyes flicked down to the floor. What did he remember? It was an interesting question and he wished he had a proper answer. As it was he couldn't differentiate real memories from the warped, poisoned half-truths that had been planted in his head by Dr. Fennhoff. The first stage in his programming.

"I remember snow and I remember being trapped. I remember you... younger. I remember a man with a moustache. I think I killed him." The memory was clear, but its significance still felt distant. He could remember the man trying to talk him down—begging—and he remembered shooting him, leaving him hanging there upside-down in his overturned car. He remembered going after the man's wife; remembered her shooting him. He remembered the pain of the bullet in his hip and the crack of her neck snapping. "I still don't remember being me. I know who I am—who I was—but I don't know what it felt like to _be _me... before." He shifted, frowning. "That didn't make sense, did it?"

Peggy laughed, brittle and sad. "I know how that feels." Her chin quivered, but she didn't elaborate. Bucky didn't press. If she wanted to talk about it, she would. He didn't know how he knew that, but he did. "All these years..." She turned Bucky's metal hand over in hers, splaying the fingers and running hers over the grooves between plates. "I thought they'd killed you."

Bucky bit the side of his mouth. All those years being tortured, mutilated, raped, forced to kill... "I wish they had."

More tears fell from Peggy's eyes and she released his hand only to pull him down into an embrace. She felt delicate, paper-thin; nothing at all like she'd been sixty-three years ago.

"Never wish that, James," she said, voice hoarse and broken. "I can't even begin to imagine what you've been though to get here, but..." Her hand cradled the back of his head and he relaxed, despite the panic that that kind of touch usually elicited. "Your life can never get better if you're dead."

"There are worse things than death."

Peggy shivered, sniffing back her tears. "I know. Believe me, I know. But you are my best friend, James. I'm so happy you're alive."

The words made his eyes sting and he blinked. Tears soaked into the shoulder of Peggy's nightgown. The embrace felt familiar, comforting, so he didn't try to pull away. His silent tears became shudders and wracking sobs. Peggy said nothing, just stroked his hair until the sobs subsided into sniffs and harsh breaths. The nurse called Sophie came and went, just as silent, and Bucky's hackles didn't rise. For half an hour he felt human.

When Peggy finally pulled back and Bucky sat up his eyes were puffy and dry and his nose felt ready to run. He doubted he looked particularly dignified, but Peggy smiled that sad smile anyway.

"Dorian, dear?" she called as movement passed in the corner of Bucky's eye.

The nurse poked his head into the room. "Yes, Mrs. Jones?"

"That green box in the top of my closet. I believe it belongs to this young man. Would you mind making sure it leaves with him?"

Bucky and the nurse frowned in unison. He couldn't remember what it was like to own something, to have something that belonged to you and only you. He wondered if it was anything like when he'd been assigned a weapon for the duration of a mission and no one was allowed to deprive him of it.

"Whatever you say, Peggy." Dorian replied, though he still looked surprised.

She wouldn't divulge what the box was—just told him to look inside when he went home. He hadn't wanted to mention that he had nowhere that counted as home, but she didn't seem all that surprised. Instead she handed him a set of keys and gave him an address. He accepted without question. He still wasn't used to being allowed to question. As he left, box in hand, Peggy kissed his forehead and whispered: "I wish I could remember this." Bucky didn't understand her meaning until he returned the next day.

He thought it had been hard to be the one who didn't remember, but he was certain now that watching a friend forget over and over was worse. Infinitely worse. Dorian explained her condition as Bucky was leaving on the second day. It didn't make him feel any better, but at least he could understand, even if it made the weight of the past feel even more crushing. When he walked away that night he felt old. Old and tired. He wondered if the contents of the box would make him feel better or worse.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

The apartment Peggy's keys opened was a penthouse—the kind of place Howard Stark would have owned, though he got the idea that by present standards it was humble. There were too many windows for Bucky's liking; too many possible entrances. Old instincts told him to close all the blinds, but he knew that an infrared scope would see right through them anyway. Leaving them open allowed him a view of most of Brooklyn. No surprises. From a tactical standpoint it wouldn't have been his first choice, but it was better than the abandoned factory he'd been squatting in.

Some distant part of him—the real him—was thrilled when the screen in the corner turned out to be a television. The last time he'd been himself they'd been very rare. The news had been on the radio; so had the Hockey. If you wanted to see a movie you had to go to the cinema. He spent a good few hours just flipping through the channels—there were so many channels. He ended up settling on a news network; best to gather intel before relaxing. Eventually, however, the news began to repeat and he turned away. There was a hockey game on and he actually recognized the teams. _So the Rangers still exist... Wonder what tickets cost._

It was two whole days before he opened the box Peggy had given to him. A quick look at it was enough for him to figure out that this was his SHIELD lockbox. Everything that remained of his life was held within the metal container. A copy of his personnel file, his badge, his battered old key card. There were dozens of seemingly random trinkets.

Bucky went through it piece by piece. With each object, each token, another scrap of his life would come back. Sometimes he could swear he could feel the synapses in his brain healing themselves. There would be a release of pressure in his head, the throbbing would cease in some corner of his skull and then the floodgates would open. Some nights he would lie awake laughing at the memories of one of Stark's Christmas parties. On others he'd cry himself to sleep remembering the first few months after Steve's death. But with each memory he regained part of himself. It was more than memories. It was identity.

Midway through the stack of loose papers beneath his file he found an old photo. It was black and white and grainy but Bucky recognized himself and the taller man next to him. There was a flutter in his chest as he looked at him and the memories surged up from the lingering haze in his mind.

Charlie. Charlie Bannerman. He thought about how many years it had been and he ached. The fear that he might not even be alive anymore gnawed at him. He'd promised Charlie that he'd come home from that last mission. He'd promised. Then he'd disappeared like Harry had.

He ran his thumb over the photo. They were holding hands in the picture. He could still remember the way Charlie's calloused palms had felt against his own. It felt like only yesterday that he'd woken up next to him; yet it also felt like an eternity since he'd heard his voice.

All of SHIELD's records were public now and it didn't take much searching to dig up a collection of personnel files. Charlie may not have been with SHIELD but they still kept an up-to-date file. Bucky had dreaded yet expected to see DECEASED in the status field, maybe a note on where he was buried. Instead, the word RETIRED greeted him, along with an address for a retirement home. _Bristol... Should be interesting to get to._

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

Airport security was tighter than Bucky remembered. There was no walking in, buying a ticket, and stepping aboard. There were x-rays, metal detectors, body scanners—they even made you take your shoes off so they could scan those too. Passports looked different. The old SHIELD-issue passport in his back pocket wouldn't cut it. Not to mention the fact that he'd never make it through the metal detector without revealing his left arm. _That'd _go over well.

Thankfully all those years as the Winter Soldier had paid off. It was easy enough to melt into the crowd, avoid the security cameras, and slip through a door marked STAFF ONLY. The passages beyond were a maze but Bucky didn't have much trouble avoiding notice while he wound his way to the tarmac. The men and women milling around the plane were too busy loading luggage to pay any mind to the flitting shadow that hopped up on the landing gear and into the belly of the aircraft.

The flight from Washington to London was dark, cold, and loud. The compartment he rode in wasn't meant for passengers. He was fairly certain that if he hadn't have been enhanced he wouldn't have stayed conscious. The air grew thin and difficult to breathe. The cold bit at his bones but he'd felt colder.

Escaping the plane and the airport afterwards was a test of every skill he'd learned. It would have been easier if he'd still been the Soldier; he would have simply shot anyone who tried to impede him. Without that option it was an exercise in patience, speed, and timing. He discovered, to his dismay, that England had a lot more cameras in public spaces than the United States. There would undoubtedly be some trace of him left.

Eventually, though, he left Heathrow and London behind. A train carried him to Bristol and money liberated from one of HYDRA's overseas accounts bought him a hotel room not far from his destination. He slept, he showered, he changed into clothes that didn't smell like the guts of a jetliner. He had food brought up to the room—fish and chips. He passed on the beer and stuck with water. His stomach had only just readjusted to eating solid food again and he wasn't keen to test out his alcohol tolerance.

He left early in the morning and went for a long, leisurely walk along the seawall. It was grey and cold and the air was heavy with mist. Gulls screamed overhead. Bristol was beautiful; as beautiful as a port city could be, anyway. The roads were a maze and traffic looked like a nightmare, but on foot it was pleasant, if somewhat industrial.

The retirement home was ringed by high hedges and a wrought-iron fence. It wasn't the sort of thing you wanted to slip and fall on but it still looked like a better prospect than going past the front desk with his conspicuous Brooklyn drawl and rings around his eyes that said 'Call the police. I'm probably a drug addict.'

Vaulting the fence came easily, though the whir of his arm seemed impossibly loud in the morning stillness. There were only two people in the garden; one of the residents and a nurse. Bucky was trying to figure a way past them when, with a jolt, he realized that the frail, greyed old man sitting at the table with his paper was Charlie.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

As usual, the paper said very little of substance. Every year there was less actual news and more distractions. Luckily, after more than forty years working for MI6, Charles was used to reading between the lines. Often times there was more to learn in what _wasn't _being said than in what was. It was all about the details. Like the way the Canadian Prime Minister had greeted Secretary Pierce like an old friend but given President Ellis the cold shoulder. It was in the faces half-glimpsed in the background as the UKIP meetings let out. In the quiet disappearance of forty-three Russian Intelligence agents with ties to SHIELD. The sudden push in several countries to tighten restrictions on Internet freedoms in the wake of the SHIELD-HYDRA info dump. The little details told him a lot. Especially the gaps, the silences... Like the silence in the garden. It was just too damn quiet and still.

"Livvy, could you do me a favour?" he asked, glancing up at the young nurse as she fiddled with the teapot.

"What can I get you, Mr. Bannerman?"

"Mrs. Terrence has been a little down lately. Would you mind talking to her for me? She still thinks I spy for the government, so she won't tell me anything." It was true enough, though it wasn't something he would have normally bothered being too concerned about. But if the unnatural silence behind them meant what he feared it did, then he wanted Livvy safely inside. "I worry about her, the poor dear."

Livvy smiled. "I think I can do that. You need anything else?"

"No, I'm quite all right, Miss Threnhold."

She poured a cup of tea anyway. "Right then. I'll go see to Mrs. Terrence." Livvy disappeared inside and Charles waited until she was out of earshot to clear his throat.

"You know, young man, I may not look it, but when I was your age I worked for MI6. So I know when I'm being watched. You can come out."

There was no movement—no crunching mulch or rustling branches—but a voice, hoarse from disuse, answered.

"If I didn't want you to know I was here, you wouldn't."

It was spoken so matter-of-factly that Charles was inclined to believe him. There was no threat, no bravado, simply certainty. He was willing to bet that the young fellow had plenty of experience not being noticed. After all, he'd managed to jump the fence without being heard or seen; not a feat that any bog-standard teenage delinquent could manage. Even if Bristol's teenagers _were _especially dreadful.

"I believe you." Charles sipped his tea. "Which begs the question: Why reveal yourself?"

The voice didn't reply. Instead, with a rustle of leaves and the soft thump of footsteps in grass, the young man approached. There was a part of Charles that expected a garrotte to close around his throat. He had a lot of secrets in his head and in light of the whole HYDRA-SHIELD debacle there were probably plenty of men and women in the government who would sleep better at night if he was dead. But the young man did not loop any wire around his neck, nor did he pull a knife or press a gun barrel to the back of his head. Silently, he passed Charles' chair and took the seat across from him. Charles froze; almost dropped his cup. The face staring back at him was impossible.

That face looked exactly as it had the last time Charles had seen it. That face hadn't aged a day—hadn't aged an hour. Old grief—buried for sixty years—clawed its way to the surface.

"James?"

What little reaction showed on his face was hard to read. Those blue eyes—always sparkling, always laughing, in Charles' memory—were almost blank. Behind the lifeless veneer was a crushing sadness. It was as if someone had sent a fishhook down his throat and ripped out his soul. He looked broken and hollow; cold and sharp in a way he hadn't before. And yet his bearing was like a jungle cat ready to spring. He was intimidating without meaning to be, without trying. He... Sunlight glinted off metal; interlocking plates, silver with a red star. A whirring, shifting limb—metal from shoulder to fingers.

"My God, you're him." His teacup hit the saucer with a clatter, his hands shaking.

James swallowed, and when his voice finally came out it sounded like he hadn't spoken in a century. "It's a long story."

"I don't doubt it." His voice trembled, his eyes fixed on the painted shoulder. "HYDRA did this to you?" Then, as if only just realizing, his whispered "You're alive... You're really here..."

Bucky nodded, eyes lowered as if ashamed. Or was he afraid? Charles had seen that sort of posture on dogs that had been beaten by their masters. He was wary, tense—ready to spring, not in attack but in flight. He kept himself small, not easy for a man who was six foot and as well-muscled as he was. And yet he looked so vulnerable. Charles reached across the table, laying his hand on Bucky's. The violent flinch that earned him made his chest ache like he'd swallowed a conker. The James across from him was a shadow of his former self.

"What did they do to you, James?"

Bucky shivered, not raising his eyes from the table surface. "You don't want to know, Charlie."

Hearing the familiar nickname spoken in that Brooklyn drawl brought a sting to Charles' eyes. It had been so long since he'd heard it; so long since he'd heard that voice. It all felt like some surreal dream. Looking into a face he'd thought he would never see again, not a day older than he'd been all those years ago.

Charlie reached his other hand across to squeeze Bucky's metal one. He could feel the plates shifting against each other. The minute twitches and movements were no different than the absent-minded motions of a flesh limb. Subtlety of that magnitude had to mean that the prosthetic was directly connected to his nervous system.

"Does it feel different?"

Bucky's eyes flicked to his left arm, a twinge of distaste on his face. "It's a little heavier than the other one... It doesn't feel pain, just temperature and pressure."

"Can you feel my hand?" Charles asked, brushing his thumb over the back of the vibranium plates.

"I can feel the warmth," Bucky replied, flexing the fingers. "But I can't feel your skin; I can't feel texture."

"Does it hurt? Where it's anchored?"

"Sometimes."

Charles shivered, slumping in his seat. All those years he'd prayed that Bucky would be found. He'd never imagined his prayers would be answered. Not like this. How many times had he looked at footage of the Winter Soldier and vowed to find him? How many times had he spent resources he could have used to hunt down the Soldier to search instead for signs of Bucky? If he'd known they were one and the same...

"I should have gone with you."

Bucky frowned. "To Russia? They would have just killed you."

The silence that followed was hardly comfortable but it wasn't awkward or painful either. Bucky didn't pull his hands away. Charles went back to sipping his tea, offering to pour Bucky a cup, but the other man declined. His defences were still up—reluctant to take the drink lest it be tainted. He could remember enough to seek Charles out, but not enough to trust that he didn't mean any harm. _That _hurt more than anything else.

"You know, two years ago, when I first saw footage out of New York—Captain America, alive and well, fighting for his city—all I could think was 'I wish James were here to see this.' All those years you thought your Steve was dead..." Charles squeezed both of Bucky's hands. "It all felt so unfair."

"I had you."

Charles smiled, feeling very old indeed. He was younger than Bucky by a few years but no one would see that now. He'd aged, he'd gone grey. The lines around his eyes were deep and he walked with a cane. Bucky still looked thirty-four. No. Younger. Bucky hadn't aged since 1943.

"I suppose you did." Charles sighed, all the warmth he'd felt when they'd been together rushed back in one great wave. He desperately wanted to embrace him but something about Bucky's previous reactions to touch set off alarm bells that warned Charles that such contact would be a mistake. "Still... After all these years you and Steve have a second chance."

"What about you?" Bucky's voice trembled slightly beneath the low grumble. There was emotion there, sure enough, but it was as if it couldn't reach the surface. Charles didn't think James was in any state to enter or re-enter any romantic relationships, but he didn't say so.

"I'm old, James. You're still young."

Bucky looked down. There was something unreadable at the back of his eyes that sent a shiver of revulsion through Charles. He was afraid to ask what HYDRA had done to him for all those years. He was afraid the answer would be too unpleasant to bear.

"I'm not young. I just look it." Bucky's metal index finger traced the designs on the tabletop. "And we... You loved me. And I know I loved you, too. I was yours, wasn't I?"

Charles' chest clenched. "I don't own you, James. No one does."

Shadowed blue eyes glanced down at the prosthetic gleaming in the sunlight. "HYDRA did."

"They kept you captive. There's a difference."

He shifted, his arm making soft, mechanical noises. "I don't know how to be a person anymore, Charlie."

"Deciding you're one of my belongings isn't the way to start." He watched fear and shame wash over James' face and wondered again what kind of punishments he'd faced for simple mistakes. "I can't claim any hold on you. Not after all this time. God knows I wish I could. I've missed you... I still want you, more than anything and it hurts. But we are so far past the point when we could have had another shot." Charles leaned over the table, squeezing Bucky's hand again. "I'm old. My retina's going on the left side, I've got a liver that's acting up and my smoking has finally caught up with me. I'm ninety-four. Now be realistic with me, James. How long do you think we would have?"

Without a gulp, without a sniff, without so much as a blink, tears dropped down Bucky's cheeks. He was still mostly stone-faced, but his misery showed in his eyes. Charles couldn't imagine what he'd been through; couldn't imagine how awful and disoriented he must have felt. But he knew there was one person who _would. _There was a tiny, childish part of Charles that wanted Bucky all to himself. Steve had crashed that plane into the ice and gone out of Bucky's life, and Charles... He was certain that if James hadn't gone missing they'd have still been together. He wanted so much for him to stay. But he loved James too much to be that selfish. James had loved Steve first and Charles knew it was the kind of love that didn't just go away.

"I'm sorry, James. That wasn't fair," Charles amended when he couldn't stand the quiet any longer. "I still love you. And I wish I could turn back the clock, but I can't."

"I know."

The silence after those two words stretched for a long time. The sounds of the garden felt out of place—too joyous and ordinary. Bird song, whistling wind in the trees, the buzzing of fat honeybees... It made James seem even more of an anachronism than he was. A passing Humvee made him hunch and narrow his eyes, watching it until it disappeared from view. He hid the fear well, but it was there, just below the surface.

"If you're not ready to see Captain Rogers, you don't have to. You don't need a handler. Find _yourself _first."

James nodded, looking like he was starting to withdraw within himself. "I've been trying to. It's not as easy as it sounds. I need triggers to jog the memories."

Charles sat in silence for a moment. He was no psychologist; he didn't know where to begin with a problem like this. But then he smiled, reaching into his pocket and retrieving his phone. "I think I might be able to help with that."

James looked sceptical but he didn't say anything; he just watched as Charles scrolled through the songs list. Towards the bottom he found the one he wanted. A poke of his finger to the screen had the first notes of "White Christmas" drifting out of the speakers. It was the first song they ever danced to, and it had always taken Charles back to that night at Falsworth Manor.

A few seconds in, James drew a sharp breath, his eyes going distant. Fresh tears followed their predecessors' trails down his cheeks. Charles reached out to squeeze James' hand again and a broken sort of noise left him as he crumpled in on himself. Charles fought tears of his own. He felt like pinching himself but was afraid that if he did he'd wake up and find it was all a dream.

He rose from his chair, tugging gently at the hand that was shaking in his grip. "Care to dance?"

James didn't say anything at first, and Charles was about to sit back down when he nodded.

"Yes," he replied, his voice a soft, barely audible whisper.

Charles' heart leapt and he couldn't hold back his smile—not that he wanted to. James rose in one fluid, graceful motion and Charles could see the restrained power beneath his skin and in the shift of his metal limb. He'd seen enough footage out of DC to know what James was capable of now, but the intimidation he'd felt when he first sat down was gone.

James offered no resistance when Charles pulled him close, tensing only slightly when Charles' arm looped around his waist. They moved as one, swaying to the notes without faltering, without a single misstep. Charles couldn't tell if James was lost in the memory of that night in '47 or if he was moving on instinct. Dancing and fighting weren't all that different after all.

He wished he could remember what James had felt like before. It had been so long and despite his best efforts over the decades his memories had faded like photographs left in the sun. All that remained were vague impressions; events that had lost their details to the crush of six decades of new memories piled on top of them. He could remember their every moment together, but he couldn't remember what James' hands had felt like clutched in his. He could remember holding him, but he couldn't recall the warmth of his cheek or the smell of his hair. It was impossible to know just how much had changed, and it shouldn't have mattered—he was here, he was alive, he was free—but it stabbed at him, nevertheless.

He was bigger now; a solid wall of muscle that made Charles feel very frail indeed. He was certain that James hadn't been that big before. In his memories the other man looked leaner—not thin, but sinewy. He'd always been strong but Charles didn't recall him looking like he could through a blast door without breaking a sweat. One of those hands that Charles struggled to remember the feel of was gone, replaced with cold, unyielding metal.

But then James' head fell against Charles' shoulder and it was 1947 all over again. Charles leaned his cheek into James' long hair and allowed himself to forget about all the things that would never be the same. One song bled into the next and their slow sway didn't falter. He had no idea what he would say if Livvy returned or if any of his fellow residents saw him, but in that moment he didn't give a damn.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

If getting out of the US had been interesting, getting back in was an adventure. Security was tighter than it had been when he'd left and the usual airport security officers' numbers were bolstered by SHIELD and FBI agents. It was obvious some kind of alarm had been raised. Fortunately they didn't seem to be looking for him, or if they were they'd severely underestimated the numbers they'd need. When he'd gone rogue in 1973, HYDRA had sent fifty agents after him with a handful of hired guns who'd been big-game hunters in the Congo. Thirty-nine agents and three hunters didn't go home. He'd been halfway to strangling a fourth when the hunter's sole remaining companion had sunk a five-inch knife into Bucky's thigh. Whatever toxin the blade had been coated in had knocked him out in less than a minute—not fast enough to save the other hunter from losing teeth to a vibranium fist but fast enough for him to be certain that it would have killed anyone else.

Bucky almost made it out of the airport without incident. The bowels of the building were easy to vanish in and the agents were mostly stationed in the arrivals and departures terminals. He was almost to the door leading into the public areas when he heard a pistol being cocked.

"Freeze. Put your hands in the air."

Bucky considered making a break for it but he wasn't too keen on getting shot in the ass for his trouble. The Soldier wouldn't have hesitated for a second, but he'd stopped being the Soldier four months ago.

He turned slowly, arms away from his body and in full view. The agent was several inches shorter than him, slighter, but obviously in peak condition. Dark hair and sharp features leant him a hardened appearance and he held his sidearm with a confidence that spoke of experience. The SHIELD pin on his lapel glinted in the low light. The same light must have reflected off Bucky's metal fingers, because the agent's eyes flicked up to the left and he paled. There was a minute of tense silence, both suspecting the other to make a move. Bucky tried to look non-threatening. One hand left the agent's gun and tapped his earpiece.

"This is Hendricks. I've got the Wi—"

The rest of the sentence didn't make it out of Agent Hendricks' mouth. Bucky's instincts kicked in and he lunged, flesh hand knocking the pistol aside, the metal one wrenching the agent's away from his earpiece. Hendricks' finger squeezed and the roar of the gunshot was deafening in the confined space. Chips of concrete showered them both. A countdown started in Bucky's head—an approximation of how long he had before other agents would reach them. He didn't have long.

He wrenched the gun from Hendricks hand and tossed it, kicking the agent's legs out from under him. His metal fist caught the answering swing as the agent hit his knees and a single well placed punch knocked him flat. Countdown still running in his mind, Bucky slipped through the door and back into the well-lit corridors of JFK International, leaving Hendricks alive but unconscious. It was well over thirty seconds before an alarm was raised in the building and by then he'd vanished into the crowds. As SHIELD agents poured into the concourse, Bucky joined the herd of jumpy travellers trotting toward the cabs.

One jolly, chatty cab ride later he was back in front of what he was rapidly beginning to think of as his building. He pushed past the Tracksuit at the door, ignoring the indignant "Bro!" which seemed to be the extent of the guy's vocabulary. Halfway up the stairs he passed one of his neighbours—the blond guy who lived alone with his dog and was probably the closest thing to a human train wreck that Bucky had ever seen. They'd never exchanged names or talked beyond the occasional "good morning," but as they passed the blond spoke up.

"Hey, you know 'go fuck yourself' works every time with those guys." He nodded toward the Tracksuit.

"Is that how you end up with all those shiners?"Bucky asked and the blond laughed.

"They wish."

Bucky had no idea what the guy did for a living. He kept strange hours and spent too much time bandaged and hurting to be some office drone. But as long as he wasn't HYDRA, Bucky didn't much care.

"Well, I'll remember that for next time."

Blondie gave a jaunty little salute and headed out the door, flipping off the Tracksuit as he went. Bucky watched him go, laughing softly before starting up the stairs. He felt a bit like he'd met his younger self—cocky, full of attitude, if somewhat rougher around the edges than Bucky had ever been.

Once through the door of Peggy's old apartment he was very tempted to just shower and go to bed. He was jet-lagged and stiff from the six hour flight but his stomach was growling something fierce so he cobbled together the laziest sandwich he could dream up and poured a glass of juice, which he scarfed down before taking the shower he so desperately needed. His hair was still wet when he collapsed on his bed and curled up to sleep.

The next morning Bucky went straight back to his lockbox. Underneath the pile of photos that he'd gone through before his little vacation he found a collection of small boxes. He opened one and blinked, somewhat taken aback to find his Silver Star staring back at him. The last time he'd seen it had been in 1945 when he'd been handing it over to a smirking Lieutenant Colonel Ross.

Tucked into the box was a piece of yellowed paper with a familiar chicken scratch that he couldn't quite place.

_Hey, Peggy._

_Figured you should have these since you've got Barnes' old lockbox. It's still a no-go over here for full retroactive returns, but they've taken Bucky as a bit of a PR case. His discharge has been upgraded and all his medals returned—plus those he should've earned but didn't get because of the discharge. Doesn't feel like much of a victory to me watching Reagan trot out a dead man as some kind of press-move, but I suppose it's better than nothing. We'll keep pressing on this end but at this rate Reagan'll sooner be out of office than do anything substantial. _

_Call me as soon as you can._

_Tim._

Bucky folded the letter and returned it to the box. He knew who Timothy Dugan was, but no memories of him had yet surfaced. All he knew was what he'd read: Long-serving member of the US Armed Forces as well as a high-ranking SHIELD agent, former Howling Commando, attained the rank of Brigadier General, close advisor to President Clinton, outspoken opponent of 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell', killed in the September 11th Pentagon attack. The ghosts of emotions wavered just out of reach. He knew there was no point grasping at them. They would come when they would come.

The next two boxes held his Prisoner of War Medal and his Presidential Unit Citation ribbon. He could vaguely remember receiving the former—a grey, muddy day, standing in a line while Colonel Phillips read off names and pinned medals to uniforms—but all he recalled of the latter was seeing it on his chest.

There were two more boxes and his curiosity peaked as he reached for them. These must be the new ones that Dugan had referred to. Bucky ran his flesh hand over the black leather surface before popping the first box open. Inside were two medals; one was round and bronze on a mostly green and brown ribbon with 'European, African, Middle Eastern Campaign' emblazoned above an image of soldiers and gunboats. The second was a red and rainbow ribbon with a medallion showing a woman with a broken sword and the words 'World War II' flanking her. A flicker of recognition passed through the corners of his mind. He could remember seeing the medal on the uniforms of his friends—a fuzzy memory of a voice he didn't quite recognize showing off the new decoration. The Victory Medal.

He ran his thumb over it and felt a warm buzz fill his chest. The memories might have been distant, but the emotion wasn't. He'd earned this—earned it with blood, sweat, and tears and they hadn't given it to him because he was gay. It was late, and awarded as a press move, but having it made him all warm and fuzzy nonetheless.

The final box was more ornate than its predecessors, the black leather painted with delicate gold lines. It didn't look like a standard medal box, but then again, none of them did. He couldn't think of any other medals he'd earned. All the ones he remembered having on his uniform were accounted for. He clicked the box open and froze.

Sitting on the plush backing, polished to a flawless gleam, was the Medal of Honor. For the briefest of moments Bucky thought it must be Steve's. It had to be. It was in his office... But surely they would have given Steve's back to him when he was pulled out of the ice. Tucked into the top of the box was a piece of printer paper with what appeared to be an official transcript. He scanned through. About halfway down the page was typed: '_awarded to Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes for acts of exceptional heroism in service to the United States Armed Forces.'_

Bucky stared at the medal for a long time. Of all the things he'd expected to find, the Medal of Honor had never crossed his mind. This was... His didn't know what this was. He didn't even know how he felt. He'd only just begun to remember what it was like being Director Barnes; having to fight day-in, day-out for every scrap of respect. Seeing himself being honoured was strange. He'd never thought he put much stock in what other people thought of him. He'd told himself that he didn't care every time someone had hurled a slur his way, every time his name was omitted from accounts of the Howling Commandos. He'd told himself he didn't care when his comics self had been killed off—he'd hated the stupid things anyway. Yet here he was having to swallow down a lump in his throat at the realization that he'd finally been recognized, that his country had finally looked past him being a queer.

He wished he'd had a chance to thank Dugan. By the sounds of things he wouldn't have any of these medals, or the uniform they would be pinned to, it if weren't for Dugan making a pain of himself. Too bad it hadn't worked for all the other men and women he'd been campaigning for.

Bucky clicked the box shut and set it down with the others. He didn't know if he'd ever get a chance to wear them or his uniform given that he was now the world's most wanted criminal. He'd lost count of how many countries had outstanding warrants for the Winter Soldier. He had a death sentence awaiting him in a few. And he was fairly certain that telling them he'd been brainwashed wouldn't get him anywhere in court. Even if it _was _true.

He left the lockbox untouched for the rest of the day. He so rarely had days that left him feeling happy and he didn't want to ruin this one. There was no telling what he'd find next, and no promise that it would be pleasant. So instead of returning to that particular portal to his past, he stepped out onto the streets. A lot about New York had changed but there was still one thing that remained the same. People on the street minded their own business like it was the national sport. And that meant that he could leave the apartment without worrying about being recognized. It made exploring his home a lot more relaxing than it might have been.

He didn't push himself that day, just visited the usual places. The September air was humid and warm and the relative coolness of Prospect Park was a relief. All the shops he'd once known were long gone, but the Middle Eastern grocers that had taken their place carried some pretty interesting stuff. And while the ships in harbour and the crates they unloaded had changed, the docks themselves weren't all that different. They were as noisy and dirty and smelled as strongly of fuel as they always had. Not for the first time Bucky considered applying for work. He could remember working the docks before the war. It'd been a decent job. But he suspected that getting a job in the 21st century was a lot more complicated than walking into an office and asking.

When he returned to the apartment that evening he felt more human than he had in a long time. For one glorious night he felt like himself, which was saying something. Most of the time he could barely remember what 'himself' was. For the first time since taking up residence in the apartment, he left the bedroom window open when he went to bed. And aside from a brief nervous twinge, sleep found him without a fight.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

The first thing Bucky found in the box the next morning was a sealed envelope with his name written in a very familiar handwriting. It took him a moment to sift through his patchy memory and place it, but when he did a knot of apprehension settled in his gut. It was his father's writing.

He very nearly put the letter back where he'd found it. The last time he'd spoken to his father, his old man had made it clear that he never wanted to see him again. It was hard to see what could have convinced him to try to mend bridges—especially _after _he'd disappeared. Out of curiosity, if nothing else, Bucky opened the envelope. The folded paper inside was dated May 17, 1985.

_James,_

_ First and foremost, I want to say this up front so you don't toss this letter without reading it, though I probably deserve that. I'm sorry. I am beyond sorry and I hate that it has taken me so damn long to _feel _sorry about the abominable way I treated you. Words cannot express how bitterly I regret throwing you out on your own the way I did. I thank God every day that your sister and grandmother had the good sense to keep you close. I won't try to claim that I had good reasons for what I did. At the time I'm sure I thought so, but all I was doing was following along with what all the other "respectable" folks would've done. It pains me to think that I cared more about what others would think than the wellbeing of my own family. I just wish I could have seen the light sooner. You were, and undoubtedly still are, a kind, upstanding, intelligent, and brave man. I couldn't have asked for a better son and I should have been as proud of you then as I am now. _

_ I've met your partner, Charles. He hasn't stopped looking for you. I don't think he ever will. Neither has Ms. Carter, but she's got rather more on her plate these days. Every morning I hope that today'll be the day that they find you. The thought of you wasting away in some Gulag somewhere... I can't imagine what you're going through. I wish you were here. With everything that's going on right now, we need someone like you. The man who stared Joe McCarthy in the eye and told him to go fuck himself on national television. You know, you've become sort of a patron saint to everyone around here. You were the first major public figure to stand up and say "So what?" when everyone called you queer. I wish you could see it. So much has changed since you disappeared, and we may be in a crisis right now but the worse it gets, the harder everyone around here fights. No one's backing down. I think you'd be proud. _

_ Anyway, you don't need me to tell you everything. When they find you I'm sure you'll be able to look it up. I couldn't do the story justice anyhow. I've never been a storyteller. __I just__ I miss you. I've missed you for a long time. There's nothing I wouldn't give to live that day over again and do it right this time. I know you still would've gone on that mission, and you'd still've disappeared, but you'd at least have had a family that was there for you. _

_ I'm not asking for your forgiveness. I've done nothing to deserve it. But I don't imagine I have many more years left and I couldn't die without telling you that I still love you. I know what I said to you last time we spoke but I take it all back. You are my son; you have always been and will always be my son. I love you and I'm proud of you._

Bucky held onto the letter for a long time, reading it over and over, his hands shaking. The sting at the back of his eyes eventually gave way to silent tears. He could remember trying for years to convince himself that he didn't care, that it didn't matter what his dad thought. He could remember telling himself that his family's rejection didn't change anything. But this... This changed everything. And it hurt even more. It had been so much easier to resent his father. Now that he knew there had once been a chance to mend bridges, the gulf of years yawned wide and impassable once more.

Bucky wanted very badly to find every HYDRA agent who was still out there and bleed them dry—for what they'd done to him, for what they'd done to his friends, for what they'd done to his family. There were so many people he would never see again and no way to go back. He didn't even know when his parents had died or if his siblings were still alive. He wanted to scream.

To give himself something to do he started digging. He was getting better with modern computers and it took him a fraction of the time he thought it would to find out where his parents were buried. He didn't have far to go, either.

He'd passed the cemetery several times during his walks. He knew his grave was there and he'd been tempted to visit it but it had always seemed too strange. Even now he only gave it the most cursory of glances. Instead, he stopped in front of the larger headstone next to it.

George Morgan Barnes

1895 – 1986

Winnifred Clara Barnes

1897 – 1981

For a while he stood in silence, his hands in the pockets of his loose hoodies. He wanted to say something but the right words eluded him. It wasn't like they could hear him anyway, but he knew he needed to say _something_. Flesh fingers absently fiddled with the folded letter in his pocket.

The early morning light cast everything in shades of blue-grey as he stood there. In the odd moments when the drone of traffic died down the wind would whistle through the tree branches with a sound like distant surf on a beach. Bucky wasn't cold but he shivered as he knelt in the grass. His voice was shaky when he finally spoke.

"I love you, too, Dad."

He said nothing else. Dew soaked into his jeans as he sat, shaking, too tired and miserably numb to shed any more tears. There were so many things he wanted to say, so much of the letter he wanted to answer but he was twenty-eight years too late to even say goodbye.

As the sun rose higher in the sky and the shadows shortened, Bucky wilted, slumping against the cold and weathered stone. He was no longer alone in the cemetery, but no one paid him any mind. Here he was just another mourner curled in on himself on an old grave.

"Excuse me, young man."

It took Bucky a moment to realize that the owner of the voice was addressing him, and when he did he cast an anxious glance down at his left arm. Thankfully, no silver showed. But when he didn't reply, the voice continued.

"I don't mean to disturb you, but you're sitting right where I was going to put these flowers."

After a moment's pause, Bucky frowned. "You knew them?"

"They were my parents."

Bucky stopped breathing. He could swear his heart stopped, too. He whirled around without a second thought. The owner of the voice stood a few feet away, small, grey, and frail with age. She looked so very much like Grandma Anghelescu that his memories threatened to tie themselves in knots. But even through the wrinkles he recognized her. Rebecca.

The flowers in Rebecca's hands fell to the ground. Her eyes went wide and her sharp intake of breath was the only sound between them. She stared at him, her expression a mixture of shock, horror, and grief. Her mouth worked silently and her hands trembled.

"Bucky...?" Her voice was nearly a whisper. She stood frozen to the spot, seemingly without realizing that she'd dropped her flowers. "How... How are you here?"

Bucky stood, running fingers through his hair. "It's a long story."

"I'm dead, aren't I?"

"No. No, you're not dead." Bucky stooped to pick up the flowers and held them out to her. "Unless I am too, which'd be a shock since I was alive when I woke up this morning." It was surprisingly easy to fall back into his old levity in his sister's presence. It was like instinct.

Rebecca took the flowers without taking her eyes off his face. "Holy hell, it really _is _you." Tears began to run down her cheek and she reached out to snag Bucky's hand. "How do you still look like this? You're older than me... I..."

Bucky smiled, bittersweet, squeezing Rebecca's hand as tight as he dared. "Like I said, it's a long story." He tried to back away but she was having none of it. She tugged him forward into a surprisingly crushing hug.

"I prayed for this every day. Every day." Becca's voice cracked. "I'd finally given up. I thought you must've died in one of those gulags. I..." Her face pressed into his shoulder and Bucky gulped. "Oh god, I missed you."

Bucky leaned his cheek against his sister's hair. "I missed you too, Becca."

They stood like that for a while, listening to the world go by. It wasn't like Bucky had anywhere to be, and it didn't appear that Becca did either, but he supposed 'reunion with a long-lost sibling' was one of those things you could scrap your schedule for. Eventually, though, he nudged her and nodded toward the grave behind him.

"You know we should probably give the folks those flowers."

"Shit. I'd almost forgotten about those."

Bucky snickered at the affronted look Becca's language earned her from a passer-by. As she placed the flowers, he lowered his eyes. It felt strange standing there, knowing that he hadn't been there for their funerals. Instead, he'd been killing in the name of HYDRA's new world order. The more he thought about it, the angrier it made him.

"So I wouldn't mind hearing that long story," Rebecca said, straightening up. "If you've got the time, Esther, Thomas and I were having lunch today."

Bucky's gut did a back flip. "Esther and Thomas?" He hadn't seen his younger siblings since 1945. They'd been twenty-two and nineteen. Esther had been engaged. Thomas had been all set to follow their father into the family business. Both of them had turned on him in a bid to stay in dad's good books.

"Yup."

Bucky nodded, even as nerves settled in his stomach. "I got all the time in the world."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

As it turned out, all his siblings were living under one roof out on Long Island. Though his memories were still suspect, he felt certain that the place had once belonged to Howard Stark. Then again, Howard had owned half of Long Island at one time or another, so it was fairly hard to find an old house out here that he hadn't possessed at some point. He caught himself evaluating the property—looking for entry and exit points, sniper nests, cover, ambush zones—and had to force himself to stop. This wasn't a mission and he wasn't the Soldier.

The moment they were in the door Rebecca was calling down the hallway. "Esther. Tommy. I've brought company for lunch."

The voice that answered was that of an old man. "Oh, not the pool-boy again."

Bucky cast a sidelong look at Rebecca and she snorted. "We don't even _have _a pool, let alone a pool-boy."

The feeling of familiarity came and went as she led him through the halls to the dining room, where the sounds of laughter and clattering plates competed with the growl of a coffee pot. Beyond the door frame, as old and grey as Becca, were two people Bucky knew well, despite the years that now stood between them. They both turned as he and Rebecca entered the room and silverware crashed to the floor.

"Good god." Thomas reached into his pocket with a shaking hand to retrieve a set of delicate glasses. Esther's hands came up to her face, eyes going wide in shock. They both looked like they'd been plump at one time, but they were thinner now. Their eyes were more grey than blue, and Esther's hair was nearly white. It was hard to tell whether they'd gotten smaller or if they just seemed that way now that he was built like a brick wall.

Bucky swallowed, waving awkwardly. "Long time, no see."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

* * *

It took a couple of hours to get through his story, even though he left out the more horrific details. Esther stared at him for most of that time like she couldn't quite believe he was there. Thomas and Rebecca sat in stunned silence through the whole tale, only stopping him once, when Thomas asked "So that was you on the News? In DC?" The righteous rage Bucky had always associated with Rebecca resurfaced once his story was finished. She spewed venom at HYDRA like she was being paid to. Bucky smiled and for once it felt natural.

Strangely, despite never being involved in the mind-bending world of SHIELD, his siblings handled his agelessness better than Peggy or Charlie had. The fact that, despite being the oldest of them, he was still physically twenty-eight was soon forgotten. Of far more pressing concern to them was the sixty years of life that he'd missed. It was only once the family stories started flowing that Esther emerged from behind the curtain of shock and guilt that had kept her silent through most of Bucky's account. It turned out she'd married her German after all. She and Kristoff had been together for fifty years when he died. Both she and Thomas took turns apologizing for turning their backs on him. Bucky tried to convince them that they didn't need to, but they went on regardless.

Lunch became afternoon became evening. They did dishes together, they cooked together, they had dinner together and did dishes again. For the first time in a very, very long time, Bucky felt at home. He learned about Rebecca's husband, Richie Proctor, and their kids, Noah, Franklin, and Jamie. He learned about grandkids and children in law; marriages, divorces, family feuds and family reunions. By the time Thomas led him out onto the porch to talk alone, Bucky felt like he could have passed a Barnes family trivia test. Seems his mother hadn't been kidding when she said that women have long memories. His sisters seemed to remember everything that had happened in the last sixty years down to the finest detail.

In the fading light outside, Thomas looked a good deal older than he had a moment before. A minute or so passed as he lit a pipe that Bucky was sure had belonged to their grandfather. It was strange to see him now. The last time he'd been in the same room as his brother, Thomas had barely been an adult. His hair had been full and brown and he'd had a vitality that had seemed endless. This slow, stooped, nearly bald version of his little brother was nearly unrecognizable.

"So I assume you got dad's letter."

Bucky joined Thomas at the porch railing. "I did."

Thomas nodded, puffing at the pipe. "Don't suppose he told you what it was that changed our minds?"

"He didn't, actually."

He seemed to have expected such an answer. "Thought he'd skip over that. He had a hard time talking about all that."

Bucky took his eyes off the distant view of Long Island Sound to study his brother's expression. "What happened?"

"I had a son," Thomas said, and Bucky watched old pain—scarred over but still obvious—pass over his face. "His name was John. Born in '53. Absolute angel of a kid. Always said he wanted to be a firefighter but he ended up an office clerk. And uh... turns out when he grew up he was like you. He was gay.

"I didn't kick him out like Dad did with you, but I wasn't the most supportive of parents. I tried, but at the time I think I was still looking at it like it was something you could cure." He paused, massaging his forehead. "I wish I could get those years back, to be honest."

Bucky knew the past tense didn't bode well. "What happened to him?"

Thomas took a deep breath. "You heard about the AIDS crisis yet?"

"No."

"Well, the internet can probably explain it better, but it was a disease that spread through the gay community like wildfire in the 80's. Thousands of people died and the government did sweet piss-all to help. There were yahoos convinced it was some kind of divine punishment for their 'immoral lifestyle'. We didn't even know how it spread, at first. It was a god damn disaster and we were on our own.

"John got sick in '83. Dad and I started helping out wherever we could. I think Dad had been feelin' guilty about walking out on you for a long time. When he found out what had happened to John he was there in a heartbeat. No hesitation. I think he was determined to be there for him because he hadn't been there for you. I know I couldn't stand the thought of making the same mistake twice. We campaigned, we answered phones, we started a few fund-raisers, we..." Thomas let out a harsh, shaky breath. "But there's only so much you can do without the official channels. John was dead eight months after he got sick. It was two more years before the government got its ass in gear. And by then Dad was gone and the rest of us were at our breaking point. Almost everyone my son knew had died. I can't count how many funerals I attended."

Thomas leaned heavily on the railing, his voice gravelly. "I used to wonder what it would've been like it you'd been there. You'd become a symbol over the years. I used to see your face on t-shirts and protest signs. You know there was a guy at the Stonewall Riot dressed up like you. They got a photo of him decking a cop." He sighed. "I can't decide if I wish you'd been there or if I'm glad you missed all that shit."

Bucky lowered his eyes. "Believe me, I'd have rather been there than where I was."

"He idolized you." Thomas' eyes remained fixed on the horizon. "His Nazi-killing, ass-kickin' Uncle Bucky. You were like the Sundance kid to him."

Bucky tried to imagine what it would have been like to be an uncle. Deep down he'd known that his family would have gone on to have families of their own in his absence, but confronted with the reality, it was somehow worse. And to know that he'd missed out on his nephew's entire life...

"I'm gonna tear HYDRA a new one. I should've been there."

"Trust me, the would've-could've-should've road is one you don't want to go down. All you'll end up with is a lot of regret." Something in his expression told Bucky that he spoke from experience. "Tearing HYDRA a new, though. _That _I can get behind. You give 'em a good kick in the balls for me."

Bucky laughed, though it was a bitter, ugly thing. "Will do."

There was a long moment of quiet. Bats chattered overhead and, even with his enhanced vision, Bucky couldn't see them. Mosquitoes buzzed around but he didn't pay them any mind.

"You know you're welcome here, any time, any day. And if you need a place to stay... You've got a place, right?"

"Yeah. Peggy gave me the keys to her old apartment."

"Good. I... If you need to talk, or be with someone, or _anything_, we'll be here. God knows we owe you more than that—"

"You don't have to—"

"Yes, I do." Thomas turned, meeting Bucky's eyes. "Family is supposed to take care of you and we failed once. You're my brother. And I know you haven't told us everything that happened to you. I know what your face looks like when you're fudging the truth. And I know you like to play like you can take care of yourself. Christ, John was just like you. And everyone needs somebody sometimes. And I'm gonna be there this time. Got it?"

Bucky nodded.

"Good." After a brief pause, he wrapped his arms around Bucky's middle. Swallowing the lump that rose in his throat, Bucky returned the hug. When they parted he sniffed, extinguished his pipe, and composed himself. "Let's go inside before we get eaten alive."

Bucky took a final look out at the water—a navy blue patch in the darkness—before following his brother indoors. For the first time since the morning of his mission with Peggy he felt completely, truly safe.

It was a refreshing feeling.


	13. Coming Home

_Epilogue: _Coming Home

* * *

**July, 2015**

Bucky shifted on the doorstep, shuffling his feet and carding his fingers through his hair. His stomach twisted and turned and threatened to upend. He hadn't even knocked on the door yet.

It had been well over a year since he'd last seen Steve face to face and even longer since they'd both been themselves. It had been a year since he'd nearly killed the love of his life. A year since he'd thrown himself off a crashing Helicarrier to haul Steve out of the Potomac. A year since he'd wandered off into an unfamiliar world in search of himself. He'd watched the incidents in Wakanda and Sokovia play out on the television in his apartment. He'd seen Steve, and he'd realized that if Steve died fighting that Ultron thing then he'd have lost his chance to speak to him, to say all the things he needed to say, to start over. He'd have lost everything all over again.

Watching that city fall out of the sky, he thought he had. It was like the _Valkyrie_ all over again. Sitting a thousand miles away, listening to his best friend's last moments and utterly powerless to do anything. Then the news came through that all the Avengers were alive and accounted for save for the Hulk. When they showed Steve helping to ferry survivors off the Helicarrier Bucky remembered how to breathe.

And yet still he hadn't gone to him. He'd talked himself out of it. He'd stayed away, too ashamed of everything he'd done and too afraid of Steve's judgement. But he couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't put it off. He couldn't spend another three weeks wondering if Steve would survive the latest crisis. He couldn't risk losing him. For all those years with SHIELD Bucky had wondered what life would have been like if Steve was still around. He'd wondered what it would have been like to live with him having said what he did over that radio. He'd wondered what it would have been like to kiss him, to be held by him, to be completely honest with him, to have no more secrets. And now that he had the chance to find out, he hadn't taken it. His fear and his shame had stopped him.

His hand hovered at the door, shaking. Fuck, this was harder than he'd thought. He stilled, almost withdrew his hand, and blew out a shaky breath.

_Just do it, Barnes._

Before he could back out again, he reached up and knocked.


End file.
